


Stiles Stilinski Is Not A Superhero

by Cheylock



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Child Abuse, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Serious Mental and Physical Trauma, This is not fun 'M'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheylock/pseuds/Cheylock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theoretically, Stiles knows it’s none of his business.<br/>Literally, Stiles gives 0 fucks.</p><p>(AU, in which Stiles finds out that Isaac is being abused [9th grade before werewolf stuff] and lots of shit goes down.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. But He Refers To Himself As "Batman" At Least Once

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuzzybooks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzybooks/gifts).



> Seriously, this got dark as hell, it is very violent, there are going to be abuse flashbacks.  
> Just be warned.

“Seriously, Stilinski? We have work to do. Get your head in the game.”

Stiles registers that Jackson is talking to him without really giving a crap about the words coming out of his mouth. His eyes and the majority of his vast stores of static energy remain focused exclusively on the huge window looking out on the street. “Dude, did you just see that?!”

From the corner of his eye, Stiles sees Jackson blowing out a huge breath with a great deal of disdain. “See what? My spazz- _tastic_ partner completely zoning out and ignoring the fact that we still have _two more pages_ to finish and an entire _diorama_ that is still _eighty percent incomplete_? ‘Cause yeah. I saw that.” Jackson chuckles to himself and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“You’re not funny—just stop. Seriously, a guy just ran past here with actual blood on his face. You’re telling me you didn’t notice that?”

“Not like it’s any of my business. Come on. We have a project to do.” Most of the blood’s draining from Jackson’s face, and Stiles watches him focus on their History report through narrowed eyes.

“You’re shitting me right now.”

Jackson jerks like he’s been slapped and stares at Stiles.

Black outrage boils in Stiles’s chest, and he pushes up from the table and stands over Jackson, trying his best for the “better give me some answers now” old-timey Western stance that is so absolutely his father, crossing his arms over his chest and tucking his chin down, covering his neck. “What do you know, Jackson?”

Jackson goes paler and bends back over his work again, mouth thinning out. “’S not my business. It’s not yours either, okay? Just…just leave it alone, Stiles.”

“Leave it alone? Really? There’s somebody running around bleeding out there and I’m supposed to leave it alone?” Stiles can no longer contain his arms and he tries to make Jackson understand just how outrageous he’s being via spastic flailing, but apparently it doesn’t take.

“You’re a hundred-and-twenty pound freshman with ADHD and a terrible arm—what are _you_ gonna do?”

Stiles feels his lip curl in disgust and he grabs his things off the table and shoves them into his backpack as quickly as he can. Jackson looks up in outrage and opens his mouth, presumably to protest, but Stiles cuts him off before he can even get started. “I’m gonna call my dad and find that kid and I’m _also_ going to complete this little transaction via email because I seriously cannot stand to be in the same room with you, you utter and absolute _douchewaffle._ ”

He has his bag snugly strapped on and he’s halfway out of the door before he hears it—”Who the hell do you think you are? Superman?!” Jackson’s voice cracks.

He turns back and eyes Jackson over his shoulder, unable to resist, and in his deepest and most gravelly voice, he calls, “The over-grown Boy Scout? No, Whittemore. I’m not Superman. I AM THE NIGHT!” A sizzling screaming dose of adrenaline zings out from his brain and shoots out, consuming his limbs, and as he leaps over the front steps and runs down the walk, he can’t help but break out into a huge grin as he finishes the line…”I am…THE BATMAN!”

 

He’s not _completely_ insane—as he runs, he tugs his phone out of his pocket and dials his dad’s cell phone. He’s only supposed to call for emergencies and he’s pretty sure this counts. Once he hears a breath on the other side, Stiles starts rattling off information, breathing hard but not slowing down. “Hey Dad love you yes I’m safe injured person I’m in pursuit blood on the face no idea how it happened I’m about three blocks North of the Whittemore residence and I have a visual on the victim, definitely male white roughly 5’7’’ blonde curly hair can’t see his eyes from here I’ve seen him somewhere before though I think maybe we have school together, oh shit he’s hunched over on 8th by a blue house and rosebushes, requesting medical personnel and/or a car to pick up victim and self, 10-9?”

To his father’s credit, he doesn’t even seem surprised. “No, no, 10-4, son, I’ll be there in five, 10-0 proceed with caution seriously Stiles you don’t know if it’s his blood stay on the phone with me okay and I take it you’re done with your project?”

“Not even close, Whittemore wanted me to ignore the bleeding guy, he doesn’t seem aware of me I’m going to approach be quiet Dad.”

Stiles slows down maybe four houses away from the crouched figure, and Stiles sees that the dude is completely flagged—he’s just curled in on himself, panting on the sidewalk. His shoulders are shaking and Stiles can here whimpering from here, but before he can move closer a shadow bursts out of the streetlights. A car speeds up on the sidewalk and almost runs the guy over; then a dark figure tears the door open right beside the kid, cursing and snarling, and his first thought is “monster” before he realizes the thing’s too humanoid to be anything but a man, and even after he gets it he can’t help but see the dude as inhuman. He/it’s screaming at the boy, yelling incoherent things laced with malice and drawing back, fist in the air.

Stiles is moving before he can really comprehend anything, yelling into the phone “Dad 10-66 10-66 I know you’re stepping on it but step harder seriously full sirens-and-lights routine I need you here _right now_ ” and pushing himself harder than he knew was possible, breathing hard and throwing all of his energy into his legs, flinging himself forward—

But he hears a wet crunch and a scream is ripped from his throat because _that sounds like a special-effect this can’t be real_ and he stumbles and trips over sideways, landing half in the bushes and getting covered in bramble scrapes because seriously _fuck rosebushes_ and he tastes raw panic and the cloying scent of roses basically fucking envelopes his head but the kid, he’s on the ground in the fetal position and the man is kicking the _shit_ out of him, _literally stomping a foot down on him oh god_ and there’s a cracking sound that sucks all the air out of the world and Stiles is running again, flinging himself at the monster, grabbing one of the arms it raises, pulling down as hard as he can, abruptly forgetting any and all self-defense training his dad’d given him, forgetting all the warnings about people that’re hyped up on adrenaline because his _own_ adrenaline is singing in his veins, drowning out rational thought and then an elbow’s catching his ribs and a fist is slamming into his cheek and he’s dropping, oh god he’s dropping and the monster is still screaming and kicking the guy on the ground and Stiles can’t let him, can’t, he drags himself over and throws himself on top of the boy, the shuddering crying boy who’s been all but silent as this gibbering beast beats the hell out of him, and then there’s a foot pressing on his back, pressing _him_ on the kid, and then he feels something wet land on the back of his head and _oh hell no did this motherfucker seriously just spit on me—_

And then there are lights, lights other than the glaring amber streetlights that make it hard to tell colors, lights that are blue and red and white and Stiles is crying and crying out, he’s yelling “Dad over here Dad please Dad” and all the sound comes back into the world and he has no idea how he missed those blaring-ass sirens and then he hears his dad _roaring_ like a goddamn _lion_ —

“GET ON THE GROUND. BACK AWAY AND GET ON THE GROUND. I WILL SHOOT.”

Stiles has never been more grateful to hear his father’s voice, but the kid under him flinches and he whispers, “No, don’t freak out, it’s okay, we’re safe now, my dad’s got our backs, don’t freak out,” and then the pressure goes off his spine for a brief second before slamming back down on his ribs and jagged stabbing pain slices into his side and he jerks convulsively, gasping inward so hard he almost doesn’t hear the shot.

But ‘almost’ isn’t ‘doesn’t’, and ohhh he’s gonna feel so bad about this later but the blackness calls to him and he fades away.

 

When he opens his eyes again, he’s in an ambulance and his dad’s staring at him, his mouth a jagged slash and his blue eyes wide and…oh god…wide and…and _streaming_ , his dad is crying, oh god his dad is crying and Stiles cannot deal with that, absolutely cannot, a huge bubble full of pain and panic wells up from the center of his chest and grows and grows and grows until he’s sobbing, harder and louder than anything he can remember, because he’s only ever seen his dad cry four other times and all of those times it was because of his mom and Stiles never ever wanted to see his dad with that look on his face over him and then his dad is slinging an arm over him and they’re both just crying, just for a minute before Stiles bites it back to ask a question.

“Dad, did you kill him?”

His dad pulls back and looks him full in the face. “I don’t know yet.”

Stiles feels the blackness creeping into his vision but he shuffles and scuffles until he’s got a firmer seat in reality. He tries to sit up but his dad puts a firm hand on his chest.

“Don’t, kiddo. The fucker was wearing steel-toed boots.”

Stiles nods and starts to relax before trying to bolt up again, and once again his dad pins him down. “Dad, what happened to that kid?! Who was that? Is he okay?!”

His dad stares at him then, basically freakin’ aghast. “Stiles. Do you mean to tell me that you threw your body over this guy to protect him and you have _no idea who he is_?”

Stiles can’t tell if Dad’s about to hug him or yell at him. All he can do is nod.

His father stares at him the rest of the way to the hospital like he can’t believe he’s real.

Stiles can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. 

 

Isaac wakes up, and the world is pain.

He has no idea where the hell he is but it’s somewhere cold and there’s beeping. Lots of beeping.

It hurts to force his eyes open. And not the normal hurt. It doesn’t hurt because he wants them to stay closed.

It hurts because they actually physically _hurt_ , and that sucks a lot, because that means that he’s gonna have to lie to Ms. Morrell again.

He forces them open and tries to force himself up, to force himself out of bed, to force himself to his closet so he can get ready for school, but his eyes open on the wrong thing.

 

It’s really very white, and he’s in a hospital, that much is obvious, and his bed is sitting up so he can see most of the room and there’s a kid from school, the really hyperactive guy who’s on the lacrosse team with him, he’s sitting there _staring_ at him, Isaac doesn’t like it when people stare, and the beeping speeds up. Isaac shivers and the shiver feels like he just broke a million things at once, and the guy’s up on his feet and at his bedside very very suddenly.

“Thirsty, dude?”

Isaac opens his mouth to say no, but he realizes at that moment that opening his mouth cracked his lips and yes, he is very very thirsty. He nods a little, sort of, but his neck’s not very cooperative—that’s when he realizes he’s in a neck brace.

The boy’s holding a cup to his lips, and Isaac sort of starts to freak out because the guy doesn’t know how fast he drinks, he could easily be drowned, but then “I did this for my mom a lot don’t worry just look at me and when I need to move it away close your eyes or look away, okay?” and Isaac stops his internal babble and complies.

While he’s drinking, he looks the boy in the eyes, hardly registering the minute scratches that pepper the left side of his face. Those eyes are amber in the light coming through the window, huge and basically glowing, they’re really pretty, and he’s looking at Isaac in the worst way imaginable—like he’s afraid of him. Isaac can’t stand it, and he’s still thirsty but he looks away.

“I’m Stiles, by the way. Stiles Stilinski. From lacrosse?”

Now that he says it, Isaac’s brain finally clicks on and he smiles a little, strained but there. “Yeah. You keep me company on the bench, right? Ten numbers above mine.” Stiles starts to smile back, but Isaac watches his eyes light on the curves of his own face, and then trail down to his neck and Isaac moves his eyes down his own body and apparently he broke his arm? “By the way, what the hell happened to me?” Isaac looks back at Stiles and his pale face is infused with raw panic and then Isaac remembers.

He remembers the third time in his entire life he’s done more than sit and take it, remembers twisting around in his father’s grip and somehow managing to wriggle out of it, remembers the taste of blood in his mouth. He remembers the solid steel glint in his father’s eye, the one that whispered ‘murder’. He remembers, for the first time in _years_ , his fight-or-flight reflex kicking in— _get the hell out of here or I’m gonna die_ —and he didn’t die, he ran, and he heard his father screaming up the street at him but he just ran, ran, ran, until his lungs burned too much and he had to stop, had to stop or _burst_ and then when he stopped he started crying and he couldn’t stop that—

And Stiles’s eyes are watering, and he’s shaking, and _why the hell is_ he _crying?_ and then his memory catches up all the way and he remembers someone on top of him, someone who smelled like Camden’s old incense, that Sandalwood stuff, telling him that they were safe and they were okay…

And the shot.

Isaac is suddenly shaking, and Stiles seems hypnotized, he’s moving closer and Isaac grabs his hand with his good arm, the one with the single broken finger, and grasps Stiles’s forearm because if he doesn’t hold onto something he’s going to drown, he’s going to get sucked under and he’s going to drown—

And Stiles apparently gets it, because he reaches his other arm, the one Isaac _doesn’t_ have in a death grip, tentatively around Isaac’s shoulders, and Isaac finds himself leaning as much as he can into it and curling Stiles’s arm to his chest.

“Is he dead?”

The long silence and tightening arms are answer enough.


	2. But Holding Isaac's Hand Kind of Makes Him Feel Like One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isaac is very afraid.
> 
> Stiles wants to make him safe.
> 
> That's all that really matters.
> 
> (In which Isaac is in the hospital and then not and guardian stuff and moving in with the Stilinskis.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update, guys! Hopefully they'll be coming a lot faster now.

Isaac has never, ever felt this afraid. 

Not one single time.

Except for maybe the time his dad tried to kill him a little bit ago, that was probably worse.

He’s been stuffed into an empty freezer at least twice a week for four and a half years, but he’s never felt the panic this thickly, he’s never felt that suffocation, that _drowning_ , smother him this completely. He’s being difficult, he has no idea how, he can barely move half his body, but he’s being difficult and the “I am so sorry please don’t hit me I’m so sorry” is rivaling with his instinct to avoid enclosed spaces. He’s trying to bite back a scream as he struggles, and the nurse with the beautiful dark eyes is whispering soothing things but he’s scared he’s just scared he’s _so_ scared _please don’t stick me in there please please_ and then Stiles’s running into the room and _not_ helping to hold him down, he’s yelling “Jesus Christ Ms. Melissa seriously get off him what are you trying to do stop seriously _stop_ if he’s freaking out this badly there’s got to be something wrong just I know you have a job to do but _back off for a second_!” and Isaac is cowering, he knows he’s cowering, but the volume shift made him want to cry, he’s so afraid he feels like he’s going to black out— 

But then there are cool, frantic hands gently touching his face, trembling against him, and he feels the wetness on his cheeks pressed back into his skin and realizes he’s crying, he’s been crying, and he’s still terrified, he’s still so afraid, his chest is still locking up, but Stiles’s eyes are there, all honey and amber, and Stiles is leaning down and getting his face level with Isaac’s and all the breath is sucked out of the room _in a good way_ because _his eyes his face oh wow_ and Isaac is painfully aware of how stupid he looks right now, how crazy he looks, and the work “freak” bolts through his mind, less of a whisper towards the back and more of a barking roar that sounds just a touch too much like his dad and he’s leaning against Stiles’s face and crying, wrapping the decent arm around his waist and _whining_ god he knows he’s whining his dad would beat the hell out of him he knows he’s whining but he _can’t_ , he just _can’t_ , “I’m sorry but I can’t go in there it’s too small I’m sorry I’m sorry I can’t I can’t I’m sorry,” and Stiles is cradling his face and wiping away his tears which should _really_ freak him out because even though Stiles’s been visiting him _every_ day for the past week and a half, even though all Isaac does is lay there and stare at the TV while Stiles does homework that Isaac should also probably be doing and babbles while Isaac very occasionally responds, they don’t actually know each other that well. Isaac’s not super good with touching in the first place, so this should be making it _worse_ , not calming him down. _Right?_  

“Hey. Hey. It’s okay. Look at me, man. Look at me. It’s okay.” 

And Isaac looks and it’s still not okay but at least Stiles isn’t holding his arms down. “I can’t go in there. It—it’s too small. I can’t go in there.” The words are punctuated by hiccuping sobs and he _knows_ that Stiles is scared of him and he’s just making it _worse_ and he looks down, away from the too-bright eyes. 

“Okay.” Stiles turns to the nurse—Ms. Melissa?—and says words that Isaac can’t really understand or comprehend because _it’s not okay_ but then Stiles sticks his arm out. “I’m gonna help you off the table and we’re gonna go get you an X-ray instead of an MRI, ‘k?” 

Isaac pulls himself up and stabby static-y pain playing along his ribs and back, but he feels better. Safer. Okay.

He’s really grateful that Stiles stays in the room with him while the X-ray’s being taken, even though Ms. Melissa says he shouldn’t.

 

Isaac doesn’t fully realize that he doesn’t have anywhere to go until the first day of April. It hits him hard and fast and _low_ and he starts shaking and his breath catches and things aren’t okay again. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” Stiles looks up from the work he’s doing, eyes wide and mouth curving into a smile and Isaac realizes this is probably the first time he’s initiated conversation. He swallows hard.

“Um. Do you. Do you know how this works? Like. What happens when you don’t. When you don’t have any family.” It all came out halting and weird, it was just a train wreck, and he didn’t know why he was asking _Stiles_ of all people, but Stiles was here, so why not.

“You mean like where you’re gonna be living when you’re okay enough to be out of the hospital?” Stiles bites down on his bottom lip and tears at it.

Isaac instantly regrets asking. He turns eyes that feel tarnished back to the TV, feeling empty and afraid. “Yeah. ‘S okay if you don’t know. Sorry.”

But Stiles is shuffling around in his chair, pulling something out of his bag, and walking over to Isaac. Isaac watches him approach, wondering what he’s going to say and what he has in his hand. For a crazy, stupid second Isaac thinks it could be a comic book, but they haven’t even _talked_ about those.

“How scared are you of my dad?”

Stiles asks the question casually, easily, and Isaac just looks at him. “What? Why would I be scared of him?” Isaac’s scared of dads in general, but there’s no specific reason he could think of to attach that fear to Sheriff Stilinski specially.

“Dude, he was the one that shot your dad!” It pops out of Stiles like it’s literally ripping free of him, and Isaac watches Stiles smack his hand over his mouth, bringing it around in too wide an arc, like he’s trying to grab all the words he just said and stuff them back in his mouth. Isaac thinks it’s kind of funny and he smiles, and Stiles’s eyes get even wider somehow.

“My dad was hurting you.” That probably sounds bad, probably sounds _awful_ , because as far as Isaac knew there wasn’t an ounce of regret in his voice. It actually came out sounding more solid then most things Isaac said, because he was totally sure of it. There are some basic rules that govern the universe, and one of those is that you don’t break the Sheriff’s kid’s ribs. ‘S just stupid. It makes sense to Isaac that his dad died, so it’s easy to accept and be done with, pretty much.

Stiles’s mouth falls open and he stares at Isaac and Isaac _really_ hates that so he nods his head down towards what Stiles has in his hands and then back at Stiles, tries not to bunch in on himself. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Uh. Here.” Stiles hands him a folder stuffed full of papers.

Isaac ruffles through them for a second before going the easy route. “What is all this?”

Stiles goes red then and starts looking places other than Isaac’s face and maybe the staring isn’t so bad after all. “Print-outs, mostly. It’s like…it’s the processes and things necessary to become somebody’s guardian in the state of California. Well, that’s the top thing. And then the next one is stuff on foster care and group homes and there’s one in there with the rights of orphans and what happens when you become a ward of the state. It’s everything I could find and read through that didn’t sound like it was written by a lawyer.”

“Why’d you print it all out? How long have you been carrying this _around_?”

Stiles’s face turns a deeper scarlet and apparently Isaac is being difficult? This isn’t a difficult he minds that much, though. Stiles leans back and rubs his neck. “Ha. Well. I didn’t think you’d have access to a computer in here and well—”

“And why do you want to know how afraid I am of your dad?” Isaac has the pieces pretty much together, but he’s so _confused_ right now, he doesn’t understand _why_ Stiles would want that. He feels his brows knit together and he just _stares._

“Um. Shit. I kind of—well, no, me and my dad kind of—we—” Stiles stops and takes a deep breath, swallows hard, then squeezes his eyes shut and blurts the rest. “—we wanted to know if maybe you wanted to live with us?” His eyes open and he’s looking at Isaac earnestly and with…hope? _Why is he hopeful?_

“That’s kind of a big deal. Do you really want me to live with you?” For some reason his voice sounds pleading and Isaac hates it. He wants to be _wanted_ , wants it _so bad_ , but he doesn’t want to be a burden to anybody, especially not Stiles, especially not Stiles’s _dad_ , they seem like they’re really nice people.

“Yeah! Come on, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want you to! I just…I want you to be safe, you understand?” Stiles bites his bottom lip and Isaac’s heart does something stupid in his chest.

“’K. Only if you seriously want me to, though. I mean, I don’t know _why_ you’re doing this. Why you want to. But I’m not saying ‘no’.” Isaac wants to be safe, too.

Stiles opens his mouth and his mouth is pinched down and he looks kind of mad and Isaac is just Jack’s pure distilled confusion. “Isaac.” A huge shiver of something slivery flickers over Isaac’s skin and he half-smiles, he’s not totally sure why. “I _like_ you. You’re cool.”

At that, Isaac blushes and looks down at his arm cast, the one with three signatures—Stiles in spiky letters covered in flames with random doodles around, Ms. Melissa with a flower for the ‘i’, and the Sheriff’s, looking more like a celebrity loop than anything else. _He doesn’t mean it like that. Stop._ “You want me to live with you because you think I’m…cool?”

Isaac feels Stiles slide a hand onto his shoulder. “No, dude. I want you to live with me ‘cause I don’t want you to live anywhere else.”

Isaac has no idea why that’s so comforting.

 

Four days later Isaac’s being wheeled out of the hospital and Stiles is the one pushing his chair.

“I can walk out, you know.”

“Dude, you can walk out the last couple steps, k? This is fun!”

Isaac groans and crosses his arms, but he’s grinning. “You’re going really fast.”

“Yeah, I know! That’s why it’s fun!” Stiles lets out a burst of laughter and Isaac can hear his shoes squeaking and squealing on the over-waxed floor, and Isaac feels light. Isaac feels like he’s _made_ of light. He’s actually doing pretty okay. He hasn’t freaked out once.

 

He didn’t freak out two days ago when the Sheriff came in and sat down beside the bed and asked if he wanted to live with him and Stiles. He freaked out when the Sheriff tried to _hug_ him, that’d sucked, yeah, and he felt really bad about it, but hugs usually wound up turning into a punch in the ribs and Isaac just wasn’t willing to risk it.

He didn’t freak out (much) when the scary lady from Child Protection Services or something came in and basically interrogated him. He did get kind of freaked out that Stiles burst into the room and tried to drag her out when she made Isaac cry, that was weird.

He didn’t freak out when Stiles brought him a little bag of clothes that obviously weren’t his. He’d thanked him, and then pulled on the brand new jeans and underwear that were about a size too big and still had the tags on them and then the striped t-shirt that was seriously _four_ sizes too big, but it was easy to put on with the cast and the busted ribs. He walked out of the bathroom and Stiles smiled kind of sheepishly and said “Sorry, had to guess your size.” Isaac’d just looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

Apparently Stiles thought his torso size and pants size differed so enormously that Isaac was proportioned like a truly awful Captain America panel.

Isaac didn’t say anything.

 Okay, so maybe he’d been freaking out a _lot_ , but it wasn’t that bad. He could still breathe.

 

Probably twenty minutes later and here they are, Isaac drowning in the borrowed-but-kind-of-his clothes, barely holding in gale-force laughter, and Stiles yelling and whooping like an idiot behind him. Maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe _this_ won’t be that bad. Isaac feels hope, real honest hope, and for once he doesn’t try to shove it out or ignore it or pretend he doesn’t really. He wants this hope to matter.

 

Stiles crams himself in the back of his dad’s beat-up old Jeep that’s really still his mom’s but whatever. He’s letting Isaac ride shotgun because it’d probably be impossible for him to wedge himself in here. Yeah, Stiles has hairline fractures in his ribs, but it’s only in like two of them—four of Isaac’s are _broken_ , sheesh, he totally deserves the front. Stiles leans forward between the two bucket seats, wincing in sympathy as Isaac forces his body up into the car. That steepness was devastating, but Stiles hadn’t really wanted the Sheriff to take Isaac home in his (much more comfortable and suited to injured people) cruiser because Isaac could maybe have some negative associations with that. Cop cars and such. Stiles doesn’t want to make this any harder on Isaac than it needs to be. It’s probably going to suck no matter what he does, but still.

The ride is over-long and awkward but Dad doesn’t take Isaac’s street or Jackson’s street or the street with the blue house and the roses, so that’s good. Stiles feels his chest relax some as the pull in the drive. His dad’s cruiser’s out front, not much he could’ve done about that, but it wasn’t that bad, right? He chances a quick glance at Isaac and he looks fine, looks solemn as usual, and then his dad is saying “We’re home, guys,” and clasping Isaac on the shoulder like a _total_ dad, God, his father, and he’s kind of afraid how Isaac’ll react but he just seems to lean into it for a second before nodding and getting out of the car. Stiles and his dad look at each other before scrambling after him, Stiles a bit slower than usual because hey, moving around still hurts a little, ‘k?

Isaac stands in front of the house, staring with his mouth quirked to the side. Stiles walks up beside him and smiles at him. “It’s not much, but it’s ours, man.”

Isaac looks over at him like he’s just seeing him for the first time. He kind of does that a lot. “I guess. You guys have an upstairs. Always wanted one of those.”

“Yeah. Your room’s up there. That alright?” Stiles raises his eyebrows and tries to stop _worrying_ so much, sheesh, it’s not like he’s Isaac’s dad.

Then he thinks about what he just thought and his stomach clenches down so hard he feels like he’s about to puke. _Definitely not that_.

It’s kind of okay, though, because Isaac’s face lights up. “That’s awesome! I have a room?

Dad’s somehow made it all the way to the garage door, and he’s waving them inside. “Yes, Isaac, of course you have a room. We’re not stuffing you in a cupboard under the stairs or anything.”

Isaac stares at Stiles’s dad like he’s seeing _him_ for the first time, too, and Stiles is stuck somewhere between laughter and jealousy. He doesn’t really get the last bit. “ _You’ve_ read Harry Potter?”

Stiles feels a huge gush of affection well up in his chest for Isaac. Totally platonic affection, of course. Not unlike his feelings for Scott. Definitely. It’d be completely insane to get a crush on the dude he’s just convinced his dad to take in. _Completely_. “Isaac, no way! He watched the movies with _me_ , he didn’t actually put the work in! _I’ve_ read all of them. Which one’s your favorite?!” Stiles reaches out and puts an arm around Isaac’s shoulders, tugs him towards the door.

Isaac goes a little pink in the cheeks and it makes stuff flutter in Stiles’s chest. _Not good. Very not good_. “Um. I read the fifth one the most. Like fifteen times all told? I think that’s my favorite.”

“Dude, you’re kidding me!” Stiles pulls his arm from Isaac’s shoulders to wildly gesture his horror. “That has _got_ to be a joke! Why do you like that one so much?! That’s the one where Sirius _dies_!”

Isaac looks sour as he steps over the threshold into the kitchen. “Uh, _yeah_ , but it’s also the one where we find out what’s pulling the carriages and Luna and Umbridge god I hated her more than Voldemort and the twins pranking everybody like crazy and Puking Pasties and Dumbledore’s Army and the Room of Requirement and S.P.E.W. and the Department of Mysteries and the _Order of the_ _Phoenix_ how is that one _not_ your favorite?”

Stiles feels his jaw drop and he just _stares_ at Isaac because that’s probably the most he’s talked at once _ever_ and Stiles seriously wishes he wasn’t done and no, no, he does not feel the urge to kiss him right now, that is _not_ happening. Wow. He watches Isaac look him in the eyes for about a half-second before letting his eyes rove around the kitchen, probably trying to forget that Stiles is standing there gaping at him.

Dad laughs again and Stiles kind of wants to chuck something at him. “Looks like you’ve got some competition for the trivia there, Stiles. Point: Isaac.”

Stiles wants to laugh, too, but he kind of only manages to nod. “Yeah, but the fifth movie was the worst.” He swallows and his throat is dry.

Isaac rolls his eyes. “No kidding. All the movies after Chamber of Secrets were kind of crap to me. I wish they’d kept Chris Columbus.”

“Hey! Me too! You know directors?” Stiles is kind of freaking out right now—how did he not realize that Isaac was into this stuff earlier?

“Of the Harry Potter movies? Mhm. Avengers stuff, too. And I’m good with the writers for Doctor Who episodes, too. That’s about it, though. I don’t really bother with much else.” Isaac is saying it so nonchalantly, like it’s not a big deal at all, but it _is_ , it’s _huge_.

“Doctor Who? A- _Avengers_?” Stiles’s brain and body stutters to a total stop, Isaac is still walking around the kitchen, touching countertops and feeling surfaces, looking like he’s afraid to cross the threshold into the living room before someone else does. “Do you—do you read comic books, Isaac?”

Isaac looks up at him then, eyes alight. “Do _you_?” He sounds so excited but so tentative, and it just tugs at Stiles somewhere deep. He glances at his dad and sees it in his face, too.

Stiles looks at Isaac in the face, into the crazy weird blue-green ocean that are his eyes. “Dude. You’re coming to my room. Now.” Stiles grabs his good hand, cupping, not lacing the fingers together because _he doesn’t like Isaac like that he already likes_ Lydia _like that he can’t like two people like that at once._ “Dad, you can order pizza, call us when it’s ready, okay.”

His dad nods at him and gives a little salute as they start moving away. “Isaac, you okay with meat-lovers?”

“Yes, sir.” It’s shy and tentative, like so much of Isaac is, and Stiles squeezes his hand a little without thinking.

And yeah, Stiles feels like a dick ‘cause he didn’t even think to ask, but that’s what Dad’s there for. “Thanks Dad love you.”

Isaac’s hand tightens around his and Stiles feels his stomach flipflop. He drags Isaac towards the stairs. “Don’t worry, man, this is gonna be good.”


	3. But His Walls Are Now As Red As Deadpool's Jumpsuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sheriff does something very nice, twice. Stiles's birthday is in two days and Isaac is _pissed_ that he didn't know sooner.

Two days later, Stiles is standing in Home Depot with Isaac, looking at a huge wall of colors. He’s pulled a few that he likes, but Isaac’s just standing there biting his bottom lip. Stiles tries to look at him without staring. It’s hard.

“Dude, what’s wrong?”

It’s a question Stiles has been trying to avoid asking—every time it comes out of his mouth Isaac finds a reason not to answer or a way to distract him, and it’s really freaking annoying. Usually Isaac starts up the comic book talk or TV show talk or the countless other nerdy talks that Stiles’d thought he’d only ever get to nerd out about with Scott. Isaac’s opinions are usually different than his, but that’s not bad; they always find some common ground, and Stiles is ridiculously amazed and excited at how well thought-out most of his theories are. This time, though, Isaac is quiet a little longer before he responds, and Stiles is wondering if he’s just digging for an excuse not to answer before he almost whispers, “You sure your dad meant _any_ color?”

Stiles laughs, bright and happy, just a quick rill before he snaps his mouth shut on it, but Isaac smiles at him, and he blushes. He has been consistently some shade of red since Isaac’s first trivia ‘point’ (okay honestly yeah sometime before that but this was when he’d actually started keeping _track_ )—his dad’s made it a running joke, to where _Stiles_ is collecting points and telling them to his dad, and his dad keeps a little tally sheet in his wallet for them. This is only the third time Isaac making him blush and Isaac earning a point haven’t matched up. Isaac’s up to fifty. Stiles has five. “He meant _any_ color, I promise. He didn’t say ‘pick something _decent_ Stiles, _god,’_ so literally everything’s free game. Sheesh, even if you wanted to pick—” Stiles’s eyes scan the color cards, looking for the most insane one he could find and catching on a green one, _lime_ green, pretty but oh my god wow bright and he reaches out and plucks it out of its stack “— _this_ one, he’d just have to deal.” Isaac’s cheeks color and he looks away. Stiles is floored. _Captain America’s_ Isaac’s favorite, why would he want a color that _Hydra_ , the evil organization that Captain America’s vehemently opposed to, wears? He stares at it and shifts it in the light to make sure it doesn’t actually read as The Hulk, but no, no matter how he squints at it, it’s Hydra all over to him. Wow. “Dude, this one? Really?”

“Really. I just…I just like it.” Isaac smiles at him while looking down, so he’s looking up at Stiles through this _thicket_ of eyelashes, good _grief_ you could build a nest out of those things. “Um. Could you help me find it? I don’t really know how this works.”

Stiles blinks, surprised. He looks at his own hand—Hydra green, Deadpool red, Tardis blue and white, because white makes his Captain America. _Wow, obvious much?_ He feels like smacking himself in the face. “Uh. Yeah. Here’s the card.” He hands Isaac’s to him, on the side with his good arm, and he blushes all the way to the roots of his hair because their fingers touch. _Yes, okay, apparently I can have a crush on more than one person at a time. Freakin’ brilliant_. He sticks the blue and the white in his pocket, opting for red, and bends down to look at the paint cans. “Read me your number?”

Isaac does so and Stiles pulls two cans of Isaac’s paint and two of his. He almost hits his head on the wooden storage thing they’re in—his paint’d been _way_ back there. “How hard do you think this is gonna be? You know, with this?” Isaac holds up the arm with a cast on, kind of dangling it in the air, smiling and happy even as he refers to the beating Stiles witnessed and tried to stop and failed at stopping before _that_ happened, and Stiles’s mouth pinches down, hard.

“Nope. Not happening. You’re not helping. You can just hang out on the bed or watch TV or something. Me and Dad’ll get it, don’t worry about it.” Stiles starts lugging the four cans of paint around Isaac, ready to go find his dad and get out of here. Now that they have all the stuff to repaint their rooms, the paint section offers no further entertainment for him. Every color is transparent when you’re not thinking of slathering it on a wall.

He completely freezes when he feels Isaac’s hand over his own, but it’s over pretty fast, leaving his heart racing and stuck somewhere higher than it’s supposed to be. Like between his tonsils. Then Isaac’s taking advantage of his body’s sudden looseness and prying the red paint cans out of his hand. “Stiles. My _one_ arm’s broken. I’m not _dead_. I wanna help paint _your_ room at least.”

 _Yeah. But you could’ve been._ “Yeah, sorry, man. I just don’t want you to like get hurt or strain yourself or anything.”

Isaac’s eyebrows raise at him, blue eyes cutting a lightning streak across his heart. _That color cannot be a real thing._ Stiles suddenly wants to scour the wall of paint samples until he finds that perfect stormy crazy green-leaning amazing dark _blue_ , but Isaac’s talking and that’s more important somehow. “Is painting walls particularly dangerous?” He actually seems sort of like he…like he’s flirting? No. _No_. Joking. Definitely joking. Not _flirting_.

Stiles’s mind throws up a line that he _almost_ uses because hey, it’s actually pretty good. _It might be for me, if you’re in the room and I’m on a ladder._ Which would not be an overstatement or hyperbole or anything, actually. He shakes his head as they start down the aisle. “No way, dude. It’s painting _ceilings_ that’s hard.” Isaac’s face gets still more inquisitive and Stiles laughs again. “The ceiling in the downstairs bathroom’s blue _._ Every other ceiling in the house is white. Did you seriously not notice that?”Isaac shakes his head, eyes wide, and Stiles smiles at him. “’S okay, it took _me_ twelve years. I can cut you a break.”

 

They’re in the jeep (still a bitch to get into, but he hasn’t managed to ask Isaac if he’s afraid of patrol cars yet) on the way home when his dad brings it up. The one topic he was told explicitly not to bring up in front of Isaac. Like ever. “So, kiddo, your big day’s coming up. The big one-six, man. I know it’s on a school day and I know you wanna go get your license and drive this bucket of bolts home,—” Dad pats the dashboard lovingly so it’s not like he’s _actually_ insulting the car, and yes, that thought should not bother him as much as it does, but whatever “—but what else do you wanna do? What kind of cake do you want? Ice cream? Do you want to have Scott over? You can go pick him up after you get your license all by yourself if you want.”

His dad is a horrible evil demonic person for bringing up ice cream and cake and Scott even though Stiles said he didn’t really want to celebrate his birthday this year. Evil. “ _Daaaad_.” He sighs a big sigh, propping one of his feet against a paint can. “Red velvet cake and Moo-llennium Crunch ice cream and no it’s okay Scott doesn’t have to come.” He flicks his eyes to Isaac and back again quick enough that he hopes Isaac won’t notice. Isaac is twisted around in the seat, staring at him with his eyebrows scrunched together, like he’s a particularly frustrating area in Bioshock. Isaac _definitely_ noticed.

“I haven’t met Scott yet, right? Why don’t you want him to come over?” And there Isaac goes, asking the hard questions. The questions whose answers would probably make Isaac want to smack Stiles in the face. Stiles sighs again and ducks his head, scrubbing at the sparse hair there with his palm flat, trying to come up with a nice way to say ‘I don’t want my stupid overenthusiastic friend to scare the shit out of you and make you feel not safe’.

His dad answers Isaac for him and it makes Stiles want to cram himself out of one of the windows and remain totally conscious as a very large many-wheeled truck runs him over. “Oh, he’s afraid it’d bother you. Would it, do you think? Having somebody you don’t know over?” Dad says it so casually, but he’s stealing careful looks at Isaac as he watches the road and Stiles knows he’s worried he overstepped.

Isaac just looks confused and maybe a little angry. He addresses Stiles instead of his dad. “No. Stiles, it’s your house. You can do whatever you want in there.” He turns back to face the front, staring out the windshield. “Kind of sucks that you didn’t tell me it was your birthday.” There’s the relative silence of tires on the road and wind streaming around the car as Stiles tries to find a way to respond to that that makes him look like less of an ass, but Isaac starts talking again just as he finally decides to just apologize. “Mr. Stilinski, could you do me a favor tomorrow while Stiles is in school?”

Stiles’s eyes widen in time with his dad’s, who glances back at him in the rear view mirror before answering. This is the first time Isaac has asked Dad to do _anything_ , even something as random and innocuous as passing the salt _._ “Sure, Isaac. I have work at five—is this time sensitive? By the way, you remember after this weekend you go back to school, right? You ready for that, kiddo?”

“Um. I don’t think it’s time sensitive, no. Before dark would be good. And yes sir, I remember. I’ll be fine.”

Stiles manages to stay quiet for a half-second. He’s surprised he kept himself from running over the end of Isaac’s last sentence. “ _Dude_. You can’t do that. You can’t ask a favor from my dad while I’m in school and then not tell me what it is! That’s not fair!”

Isaac turns toward him, eyebrows raised haughtily. “I guess you can’t not tell me that your birthday’s coming up then, huh? Oh wait. You did that already.” He turns back around and Stiles’s dad actually has the _freaking_ nerve to laugh. And then he says the only thing that could make the whole incident funny for Stiles.

“Point: Isaac.”

 

“Isaac, you don’t have to do this.” Stiles’s dad is looking at him, kind of hovering, like he wants to step in front of Isaac and keep him from going inside his old house.

Isaac’s standing on the porch, key in cast-clad hand. He’s swallowing and kind of afraid to move, and he reaches over with his good arm, staring straight at the door, groping blindly until Stiles’s dad takes his hand. He squeezes it, feeling like a little kid instead of a teenager, forgetting for a moment that he’s not supposed to show fear, it’s like asking for it. “I know. But I kind of do. You can’t just keep buying me stuff.”

“Actually, I can. But if you want your stuff, I understand. I’m sure it’d be nice to have some of your things. But honestly you’re probably going to grow out of your clothes in a few months anyway—you’ve already grown a couple inches since you’ve been in the hospital, those pants kind of fit lengthwise now.”

“I only really want my comic books and my computer and things, if that’s okay with you. Everything else…I don’t care. Anything.” His voice is trembly and Stiles’s dad squeezes his hand back.

“It’ll probably all go into storage, kiddo. We can’t do much else with it until you turn eighteen.”

“Are you sure we can’t sell it?” Isaac’s voice is sharp, high, desperate.

“We’ll talk with your lawyer about it later, okay? Let’s just get through _this_.”

Isaac nods. That’s an awesome idea. He sticks the key in the lock and turns it over with great difficulty. He didn’t know _why_ he’d insisted upon doing it, especially with his bad arm, but he’s glad that he does. It makes him feel stronger. At least slightly powerful. He leaves the key in the deadbolt and wiggles the doorknob. The bottom lock’s unlocked, and he opens the door and steps tentatively over the threshold.

It doesn’t feel like his house anymore. It doesn’t feel like he lives there anymore. It doesn’t feel like _anyone’s_ house anymore. _It’s ‘cause it’s not. Not your house and not his, either. He’s dead_. Isaac’s body goes limp and he slips his hand from Stiles’s dad’s, his heart beating so hard and fast that he feels like it’s pulsing in his eyeballs, whiting out the edges of his vision. He feels like he’s looking through fogged glass, like he’s _breathing_ through fogged glass. Somehow he makes it down the hall into his room, even though he feels like his feet aren’t even touching the floor anymore.

He opens the door and it looks exactly the same. He hates the cream-colored walls and the gray-blue bedspread, even though he never thought of the colors at all before this. He hates the hardwood floor and the uncomfortable desk chair and the bunk bed whose top bunk has been empty for four years now. He hates the ugly chrome floor lamp he has to turn on to see _anything_. He is hatred. He is anger.

He gets so angry he gets afraid of himself, until his emotions ball up in his chest and he feels like he’s about to fall over or vomit or something, something bad, maybe even _scream_ , but there’s a soothing hand rubbing his upper back, right over his shoulder blades. “Hey. Isaac. We can come back a different day. We don’t have to do this right now.”

Isaac starts to nod, but then he remembers the whole reason he needed to come today. “Later for everything but this.” He kneels and slips his good arm under the bed. He feels around for a second before tugging out a box that has ‘Cam’s Stuff’ scribbled across the side. It’s his now, and it’s full of comics. He’ll go through them when he’s somewhere safe so he can find Stiles’s birthday present. Now he just kind of grasps at the box and tries to lift with his knees, but he can’t get the cast-y arm to curl around it right. He looks at Stiles’s dad a little desperately.

The man bends down and picks it up easily, though every time Isaac does it he feels like it weighs about eighty pounds. “Let’s get out of here. You first.”

Isaac nods again, just now realizing he’s trembling all over. “Yes, sir.”

 

They drive right by the spot it happened and Isaac doesn’t even bat an eyelash. They’re in the cruiser, because it’s way easier to get in and out of than the jeep. Isaac’s starting to think the squad car makes Stiles nervous, but he doesn’t know how to broach the subject without looking overprotective and weird. The box is sitting in Isaac’s lap, and he’s hugging it to his chest as best he can, ignoring the wincing strain it causes on his ribs and the weight it puts on his legs.

“There’s gotta be something pretty special in there if you went through all that trouble for Stiles. Hint?” Stiles’s dad is smiling over at him and Isaac smiles back. The Sheriff makes him nervous, but Stiles’s dad makes him feel as safe as Stiles himself. There may only be a knife’s edge of difference, but it’s there, and Isaac is seeing The Sheriff as Stiles’s dad more and more now. It’s making him happy—it’s making his heart beat easier.

“No hints. I’ll give it to him tomorrow morning before school.” Isaac’s been up every day at the same time as Stiles and they always wind up talking in the kitchen before he leaves, Stiles scarfing down a quick breakfast of cereal or a pop-tart. Isaac’s body’s been trained for a long time to get up in time for school, even on the days he doesn’t actually need to be awake. Bad things happen when he sleeps in. Thinking of this, Isaac makes another request before he can really think about it. “Could we stop by the grocery store, too?”


	4. But If He Was, His Only Power Would Be Blushing With The Fire Of A Thousand Suns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Stiles!: Part One.
> 
> (In which Isaac wakes Stiles up from a nightmare, cooks Stiles breakfast, gives him presents, and sends him off to school with a minimum of trauma for both of them.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long, guys. Hopefully the adorable makes up for it. <3

Isaac decides to wake Stiles up early. He _knows_ it’s Stiles’s birthday and he should be able to sleep in at least a little before school, but Isaac’s afraid he won’t have time to eat, so he creeps down the hallway in socked feet, determined to rouse him but still tentative about actually _doing_ it. He’s unsure why he’s being so quiet when the entire point is to wake Stiles up, but there’s something about 5:45 AM that demands timidity and a very cursory attempt at stillness. Stiles’s door is open just a little ways and Isaac can see his huddled form on the bed, cloaked in the weird gray-blue light of early morning. Isaac’s heart flutters and he smiles, toothy and unselfconscious, because there’s nobody here to see him anyway. Stiles’s dad won’t get off work for two more hours, and judging by the amount of time Stiles’s (ridiculously loud) alarm usually goes off in the morning, he sleeps pretty hard. Isaac feels like a shadow, and for once it doesn’t bother him.

He debates with himself for a moment before slipping into the room, deciding to walk in and talk Stiles awake instead of pounding on the door or shaking him. Isaac knows from experience that both of those things suck pretty hard. He actually has to psych himself up to do it, to break the stillness, to wake Stiles up. He’s afraid Stiles’ll be mad, even though he _loves_ food and even though he hasn’t been mad about _anything_ concerning Isaac so far, even three days ago when Isaac dropped a glass while Stiles was at school and Stiles found him with the pieces covering the table, frantic and crying because he couldn’t make it _fit back together_. Isaac stands stock-still, weirdly nervous, recounting the episode. It helps calm him down, reminds him that Stiles _wants Isaac there_.

 

Stiles’d just looked at him kind of sadly and then gotten the little hand-broom and swept the whole mess off the table and into the trash. He told Isaac he’d tell his dad _he_ broke it and to watch what happened when he did. Isaac realized he was being irrational later, but in that moment he thought Stiles was punishing him, telling him to watch Stiles take the beating _he_ deserved, and Isaac’d gone near-hysterical with panic.

He couldn’t even tell Stiles what was wrong, he just seized up in the dining room chair, practically hyperventilating until Stiles managed to figure out _why_ he was freaking out and explained that he only wanted Isaac to _see_ and to _realize_ that his dad wasn’t going to hit either one of them, ever, for any reason. Isaac wasn’t totally convinced. When the Sheriff came home, Stiles stepped in front of him, and Isaac couldn’t crush the thought that sprang forward— _He’s asking for it_. It made him want to scream, made him want to fling himself in front of Stiles, but Stiles just said “I broke a glass, Dad,” and his dad _looked_ at him. Isaac’d misread his confusion for contempt and he was afraid he was going to wet himself.

The Sheriff slipped his fingers into his belt loops and tilted his head to the side and back, eying Stiles down his nose. “Is everybody okay? I mean—you cleaned it up and nobody got cut, right?”

Stiles nodded, biting his lip. “’S fine, I got it all, Dad.”

Stiles’s dad’s eyebrows rose up. “Oookay then. Not sure why you’re worried about it, kiddo. ‘S just a glass.” He lifted a hand to pat Stiles on the shoulder and Isaac sucked in a huge breath—he knew this play. He was nice to you, he smiled and said it wasn’t a big deal, he acted like he was going to hug you or something and then… _then he hit you. Then he hit you and you did this and this was_ your _fault_. Isaac’s eyes weren’t really seeing anymore, just staring in blatant panic, swollen with it, and that huge breath caught and left his lungs overfull. The Sheriff finished his motion, patting Stiles’s shoulder, but he glanced over at Isaac and practically sprinted toward him. Isaac kicked his feet out on instinct, shoving the chair back and away from the table, away from the Sheriff’s approach, with a loud squealing noise and then picked his legs up and bunched into himself, cowering, trying to get ready for the first blow. He had to get away from the table. It hurt way more to have your head bashed into a table than to get knocked off a chair.

He opened his wincing eyes about a minute later to see Stiles’s dad backed against the front door, hands out and eyes streaming. Isaac thought he might throw up. He looked down at the linoleum just as Mr. Stilinski opened his mouth to speak.

“Son, are you okay?” His voice trembled and that made _Isaac_ tremble. The Sheriff was invincible—he shouldn’t be _crying_. He shouldn’t be _afraid_. Isaac waited for Stiles to answer his dad, but there was just silence. He tentatively raised his eyes up from the tile to see The Sheriff staring at _him_ and Isaac thought he hated _that stare_ coming from Stiles’s dad way more than he hated it coming from Stiles.

A tremulous voice crept up on his right. “Isaac, I’m going to hug you now, okay?” Stiles’s voice was almost unrecognizable, and Isaac looked up to see that _he_ was crying, too. Isaac nodded.

The next day Stiles’s dad announced that Stiles and Isaac were going to paint their rooms and they got to pick any color they wanted. “You guys have to know that this place is _yours_ , okay? I’d never do anything to take that away from you.”

“I…I’m sorry.” He spoke it to the room, to everyone at large, so both of them knew that he _was_. Stiles’d just hugged him and told him he didn’t have to be, that he was happy Isaac was living with them now, that it was all going to be okay eventually.

Isaac was glad that he hadn’t needed to explain that it _wasn’t_ okay right then. Stiles’d just known.

 

And now he stands here, just inches away from Stiles, and is still afraid, just like earlier, when making breakfast for Stiles, he was still afraid. It’s not afraid of any _specific_ thing, it’s just fear, and it sticks in his throat and makes his words back up, but he tries to push past it and barely whispers, “Hey, Stiles?” The words don’t seem loud enough to travel more than an inch past his lips, and he’s not surprised that Stiles doesn’t stir. He swallows and starts to try again, but a quiet whimper makes him squint down at Stiles’s face in the poor lighting. It’s scrunched in a rictus of what looks like pain, and Isaac forgets everything but making it _stop_.

He sits on the bed beside Stiles, torso turned awkwardly to face him, and reaches out his good hand to cup Stiles’s cheek without thinking. This time when he speaks, his voice is quiet but not _whispering_. “Stiles. Stiles, wake up, okay? Are you okay? Stiles?” He moves his thumb gently over Stiles’s face as he talks, trying not to marvel at the soft skin, trying not to make this _creepy_. Stiles’s eyes barely slit open and then he dives forward and Isaac doesn’t have _time_ to flinch away, Stiles’s arms are locked around his waist and Stiles is _sobbing_ , hard and sudden, and Isaac slips his good hand up into Stiles’s hair on instinct as Stiles presses his face to Isaac’s chest, shaking.

Stiles doesn’t say _anything_ , just cries, and Isaac isn’t going to press him while he’s _crying_ , holy _crap._ He doesn’t try to say ‘it’s okay’, doesn’t make shushing noises, just runs his fingers though Stiles’s so-short hair until his sobbing slows down, then goes quiet completely. Stiles goes weirdly still and Isaac just keeps moving his hand in Stiles’s hair, trying to pretend that he’s not _painfully_ aware of Stiles’s naked shoulders, just like he tries to pretend he’s not _painfully_ aware of them when Stiles walks shirtless from the bathroom after he showers. He whispers, fairly confident Stiles is paying attention so he’ll understand. “Hey. You okay?” The answer to his unspoken question—'what _happened_ ''—comes to him in a flash. “Bad dream?”

Stiles nods into his chest and starts to detach his arms from Isaac’s waist. Isaac _does not_ feel disappointed. Not at _all_. He’s leaving his hand in Stiles’s hair as an attempt to still comfort him, and he has _no_ ulterior motives, he is _not_ admiring the softness of it, nope, not at all. And his heart _doesn’t_ jerk up into his throat when Stiles leans into his hand and closes his eyes.Not even a little. _Stop it. It’s not because it’s **you**. He's just scared. He doesn’t like you like **that**. Stop_. Then Stiles is talking and Isaac feels like his entire body is honing in the quiet, trembling words. “Same one. _God_ I don’t know if it’ll ever stop. I gotta ask my dad for a mulligan on the walls. The color makes it worse.”

Isaac looks up at the beautiful, _harsh_ Deadpool-red, washed out to a strange gray in the dawnlight, and nods, _wanting_ to ask _so_ bad about the nightmare, one Stiles has apparently _been_ having, but he doesn’t think it’s his right. If Stiles wants to talk about it, he will. It’s not Isaac’s place to needle at him. “Maybe you two can go by Home Depot after you get done at the DMV? What color would you wanna try, you think?” He wants to ask ‘is it because it looks like blood?’ He wants to ask _a lot of things_ , but he just doesn’t.

Stiles pulls away from Isaac’s hand like it’s _hurting him to_ , and Isaac drops it and finds Stiles’s, lacing their fingers together, wanting him to _know_ that Isaac is here, that he’s not going anywhere. Stiles squeezes it and looks at him gratefully, tears spilling out of his eyes again, and Isaac desperately wishes that his other arm wasn’t in a cast so he could brush them off. He could try, but he doesn’t trust himself not to accidentally knock Stiles in the face with the cast. Stiles takes care of it with the heel of his free hand, though.

“Um. Yeah. Home Depot, good plan. I’m not sure yet—I want a blue, but I have to find it.” Stiles smiles at him and his heart doesn’t know how to handle it, he’s pretty sure it actually _stopped_ for a second, before starting back, going way too fast, maybe to compensate or something. Stiles rubs his eyes and looks at the clock on his bedside table, the digital display flashing 5:55 out in dim green letters. “Ugh. Two hours before school. Shit.” Isaac watches him flop back against the bed, sighing, before looking up at Isaac sharply, the color of his eyes watered down almost completely in the weird light. “Are you okay? Why’re you in here? Did _you_ have a bad dream or something?” Stiles sits back up and and puts his hands on either side of Isaac’s face, taking him apart with his huge muted eyes, and Isaac thinks of how easy it would be…to just slide forward, just a couple inches, and press his lips to Stiles’s.

He blushes _hard_ and blinks a few times before pulling away from Stiles’s hands and turning his head from Stiles’s examining gaze. He really doesn’t like it when Stiles looks like he was trying to figure him out. He’s a _person_ , not a puzzle. “No. Um. I’m sorry, I know it’s early, but I kind of. Made you breakfast? And you have presents to open. If you want. I mean, you could always wait or go back to sleep or something but it’ll be cold. Oh. Happy birthday, Stiles.” He turns back to Stiles’s face, smiling a little, and watching Stiles’s face change from total surprise to excitement and happiness.

“Isaac—you didn’t have to— _thank you_. I haven’t had _actual breakfast_ for like two months! And dad _never_ lets me open my stuff when he’s not here, I dunno how you got him to _do_ that— _thank you_! ‘Cmon, what’re we waiting for? Food sounds _awesome_ right now.”

 

Stiles’d padded all the way down the stairs before realizing that he was shirtless and _in boxers_. Isaac’d slunk ahead of him and was already in the kitchen dishing him up a plate, clad in overlarge pajama pants and a t-shirt that Stiles was pretty sure was his at some point, socked feet making almost no noise against the linoleum of the kitchen floor. Stiles is totally mortified for about five seconds before smelling _bacon_ and _sausage_ and _pancakes_ and so much fucking awesome he could hardly deal with it. He hasn’t had real breakfast, cooked non-McDonald's breakfast, since the last time he stayed the night at Scott’s house when Ms. Melissa wasn’t working. Isaac is making him a plate and it looks amazing, there are perfect golden pancakes with _chocolate chips_ , he really needs to just marry Isaac, holy crap, this is a serious reason to put a ring on it, he can’t _ever_ remember saying he liked chocolate chip pancakes and yet here they are. He grins before he blushes to the roots of his hair—what the fuck is he thinking, ‘put a ring on it’? What the fuck is this, _Glee_?

They aren’t even dating, they will more than likely _never_ be dating, Isaac is just being his painfully endearing and considerate self, Stiles needs to shut down those thoughts likw noq. 

He concentrates on the plate of food that steadily grows, if he wasn’t a bottomless pit he’d be afraid he wouldn’t be able to _finish_ it all. The bacon he smelled looks crisp and _awesome_ and the sausage looks the perfect amount of seared and _awesome_ and the scrambled eggs are all cheesy and _awesome_ and Isaac is just _so freaking awesome_ Stiles really can’t handle it, Isaac’s using his cast-clad arm to support the plate and Stiles’s heart feels like it’s trying to pull out of his chest and _go_ to Isaac because he’d done _all this_ with one freaking arm and it was just seriously the sweetest thing anyone’d ever done for him. He watches Isaac shovel some hashbrowns with _ham and onions_ onto the last clear spot on the plate, they’re his _total favorite_ and it’s too much, when Isaac finishes Stiles takes the plate from him and sets it on the counter and Isaac looks at him, all concern. Stiles realizes his brows are knitted together and he’s frowning—it’s just kind of hard to fathom that Isaac’d done this for him.

Isaac bites his lip, looking kind of freaked out, and Stiles realizes that he’s standing _really close_ to Isaac without moving, looking at him kind of fiercely, and he shakes his head and shuts his eyes and hugs Isaac around his neck, having to lean up a little to do it—he thinks Isaac might be in the middle of a growth spurt, that’s probably going to be really painful for him later, but it’s just starting to make him kind of dreamy and yes, Stiles is so far gone. Fuck.

“Holy shit, dude. Thank you.” He feels Isaac’s arms come up and pool around his waist and he leans into the hug maybe more than is necessary, turning his chin so it rests between Isaac’s neck and shoulder, leaning his head a little to let his face nuzzle into Isaac’s hair.

Isaac’s so quiet Stiles almost can’t hear him. “…welcome. Glad I could do _something_ for you.” And yes, that is all this is. A grateful dude making another dude who did not deserve the gratitude (because he was slow as fuck and he fell in a rosebush and also because he was developing an absolutely ridiculous crush on aforementioned grateful dude) breakfast for his birthday.

Stiles peels himself off Isaac and smiles at him a little sheepishly. “Dude, make _yourself_ a plate and come sit with me! I can wait.” He picks up his plate again and his smile grows when Isaac nods and complies, though he is a little weirded out that Isaac only gets some of the hashbrowns and eggs. “Dude, not gonna have some sausage? Or bacon? Or pancakes? Come on, eat with me, don’t _nibble_.” His tone is teasing and apparently Isaac takes it as such.

He quirks an eyebrow up at Stiles and Stiles tries to pretend that it doesn’t make it hard for him to swallow. “I can come back for more if I’m still hungry, Stiles. I ate while I cooked some, so I’m not exactly starving.” Isaac reaches into a drawer and gets two forks out before cocking his head toward the dining room, smiling as he starts walking that direction himself.

It’s good that Isaac isn’t looking at him. It’s good he hadn’t asked any questions. Stiles is trying to find his tongue—it seems to have evacuated his mouth when Isaac…well, _that_ seemed like flirting, maybe not his words but his _body language_ , god, even to someone as unpracticed as Stiles. He shakes his head and tells himself firmly that it’s just how Isaac is, that Isaac is getting more comfortable around him, and he grins at the thought and follows, settling down in the chair beside Isaac and digging into his eggs.

He’s taken three huge bites before he registers that there are already two glasses of chocolate milk sitting on the table _and_ the pancake syrup _and_ that there are three thin packages wrapped in his dad’s standard birthday paper. He reaches out to the presents with his free hand, but Isaac stops him with his good hand, not by slapping him but by lacing his fingers in Stiles’s from the side and tugging his hand back gently with his cast-free arm.

“Nope. Those are from me, and I say you can’t open them until after you finish eating.” Isaac smiles bright at him and Stiles’s mouth drops open before he blushes and clamps his mouth shut again—he’d forgotten he had throughly-chewed eggs in his mouth _and Isaac’s hand is on his hand for the second time today holy crap best birthday_. Isaac just laughs and blushes, too, releasing Stiles’s hand and picking up his own fork.

Stiles swallows the eggs as fast as he can, indignant but still laughing. “Okay, that’s _torture_ , all I’m going to be able to think of while I eat this amazing food are those and I’m gonna scramble through a million options trying to figure out what it is and this really isn’t fair, Isaac, it’s not at all.” He sticks his bottom lip out and nudges Isaac’s leg with his foot under the table, and Isaac laughs a little before going a dark red and looking down at his plate, then staring up at Stiles briefly through his eyelashes before going back to his food. Stiles has no idea how he’s going to survive living with Isaac—the guy tries to give him a coronary every three freaking seconds, _jesus_ , but he needs Isaac to _keep_ looking him in the eye like that because he’s gotta seriously memorize that color if he wants it on the wall.

They eat in companionable silence and Stiles wonders whether it’s actually companionable for Isaac. Isaac doesn’t normally talk much to begin with— _or at least he doesn’t talk much after severe trauma while he sits in the hospital, asshole_ —unless they’re on a dorky subject that Stiles always has to bring up first, so he’d _think_ Isaac wouldn’t be bothered by it, but he keeps stealing glances at him to access his facial expression. The lazy droop of his eyelids suggests that he’s probably still tired, which Stiles wouldn’t blame him for—he has no idea how long all this took, but he can make a pretty good guess and say at least an hour of prep if everything was done at the same time. And with _one arm_. Stiles watches Isaac bring some food to his mouth and notes the way his arm trembles; he’s probably overtaxed the crap out of the muscles in it and now he’s paying for it. God, he has to be exhausted.

Stiles finally focuses in on the one part of Isaac’s face he usually tries to avoid looking at because he’s an idiot and just the sight of Isaac’s mouth is enough to induce daydreams, but the small teasing curve in it as he chews is infinitely reassuring. He finds his own mouth curving up as he shovels more food into it, and now that he’s looked he really can’t _stop_ , he’s just _staring_ at Isaac’s mouth, watching him take a bite of hashbrowns, watching the careful way he maneuvers his fork and the pout of his lips as he brings the food into his mouth completely, watching as his mouth conforms to the fork and brings it out clean, watching it pause in chewing, and Stiles brings his eyes up and they meet Isaac’s and a bolt of heat zings down his spine before his cheeks color again and he goes back to his food, probably too enthusiastically, but _shit_ he was just caught staring, how fucking awkward is that?

And Isaac—Isaac has the _sheer nerve_ to start giggling and Stiles swallows whatever he’d crammed into his mouth (he thought it might’ve been bacon, but that wasn’t particularly important) and looks up at Isaac, opening his mouth to say god knows what before his heart pretty much stops because Isaac’s looking at him sideways through his lashes, blushing like fire but still smiling and Stiles can see teeth and he can _never_ see teeth, his mouth just hangs open and his heart tries to kick-start hard enough to knock him off his chair. He somehow manages to snap his mouth shut again and takes a huge swallow of chocolate milk, looking down at his plate and realizing that _he’s three-fourths of the way done_ how did that even happen? He hadn’t even put _syrup_ on his _pancakes_ , he’d just been _eating_ them and that was in no way what they were for, but the chocolate-to-cake ratio was perfectand he hadn’t really needed any and what was Isaac doing to his brain right now?

He finishes the final fourth with his eyes zeroed in on his plate—he is infinitely and inordinately proud that he doesn’t look up once. Then, if he had he probably would’ve just choked, because when he does Isaac is staring at him with a forkful of eggs almost to his mouth, his arm trembling like crazy, an adorable half-smile playing on his lips. It seems like it takes him a second to really register that Stiles is staring at him, totally awestruck, but when he does he turns almost purple and shoves the food into his mouth, chewing and looking away, but still smiling a little.

“Dude, do I have something on my face?” Stiles starts wiping at his mouth a little frantically—he knows he looks stupid pretty damn often but he doesn’t want to look stupid in front of Isaac, okay?

Isaac looks back at him, eyes still half-lidded, and laughs. It sounds so nice Stiles doesn’t even care. “Uh, yeah, now you do.” Stiles scrabbles at his face where he touched it and pulls away, and there’s a huge smear of chocolate on his hand. Great. He groans, but Isaac laughs again, bright and unselfconscious, so it doesn’t matter. “I got it. Hold still.”

Isaac reaches out with his napkin in hand and they’re both blushing like fire ( _Why is Isaac blushing?_ ) as he wipes Stiles’s face. Stiles tries to pretend he doesn’t gasp when Isaac’s thumb grazes his cheek—he’d had his hands in Stiles’s crew cut when he woke up from that nightmare, this should be no big deal. He swallows hard when Isaac pulls his hand away. “See, no problem. Now wipe your hands off and…and go for it, I guess, if you want to.”

For a second Stiles has no idea what Isaac is talking about—did Isaac just say to go for it? Because if he said that and knew Stiles was thinking about kissing him—but no, no way, nuh-uh, that can’t’ve been it. Nope. Definitely not what he was talking about. What was he talking about? Stiles watched Isaac’s eyes dart to the presents and back, shy smile going a bit worried, and oh yeah.

Stiles grabs his napkin and wipes off his hands before picking up his plate and moving it to the empty spot beside him. He snags the corner of the package on the bottom and drags all three of them over—and he’s almost totally sure he knows what they are.

“Dude. You didn’t.”

Isaac just smirks at him (seriously, coronary, he needs to stop) and Stiles grins huge and tears open the first one and holy shit wow it’s the only Deadpool Kills The Marvel Universe he doesn’t have (the one with the alternate cover and everything!) and he fistpumps and clutches the comic in its protective wrapping to his chest, heart doing stupid things because Isaac must’ve been paying such close attention when they’d gone through his collection, wow. “Ohmygod thank you, man! Dude.” He can’t stop looking from it to Isaac, so freaking happy—it’s not like the comic’s even rare or anything, it’s just so awesome that Isaac’s helping him fill the holes in his collection, it makes him almost painfully happy and he’s not even totally sure why.

He expects Isaac to comment, to do something, but Isaac just looks at him, biting his bottom lip and smiling around him, and nods him on to the next one. His dad and Scott are so different from Isaac when it comes to giving him stuff—Scott always wants to know why he likes it, what about it makes him so happy, and his dad always expects him to give an oral presentation on how this is the best gift ever, but Isaac just seems happy to give it to him. He guesses that Isaac already knows that Stiles would like it, because he pays attention. Not that Scott and his dad don’t—they just don’t seem to pay it quite as _close_.

His grin grows and he settles the comic in its lap before pulling the next one to him. He tears into a single strip straight down the middle and he’s pretty sure he does choke for a second. He takes the yellowed comic out of the paper reverently even though it’s in protective packaging, breath caught in his throat, and checks the date. Tales of Suspense, #68, October 1964. He thinks he might pass out. “Dude. Dude. This is a Silver-Age comic. How did you even get this? You know Iron Man’s my second-favorite, ohmygod and your favorite’s on the cover, too, holy crap.” He wants to take it out of the plastic, feel it, but he doesn’t think he can touch it without going completely spastic, which he kind of already is but he doesn’t want to make it worse.

“Don’t worry about how I _got_ it, Stiles, it’s yours now. You only have four Silver Age’s, I’ve got like fifteen, don’t worry about it. It has Cap’s origin story in it, that’s what’s important. Well, one of them. You can finally start seriously reading him now. This present is totally selfish, sorry.”

Stiles is kind of stunned. It doesn't sound selfish—it sounds sweet beyond all reason, because Isaac is trying to share a really big part of himself with Stiles, and it just makes the comic that much more special. He runs his fingers reverently over it, though the plastic still, heart swollen in his throat. He has to swallow past it to speak. “ _Thank_ you. Seriously, _thank_ you. I promise I’ll read some of his stuff besides Civil War now.”

Isaac’s smile shows his teeth again and something really insane happens in Stiles’s chest, it hurts but it’s a good hurt and something kinda weird pops into his head. He’s never felt like this about Lydia. Maybe it’s because she’s never smiled at him like that. Stiles is still thinking about that smile, how beautiful it is, how good it is that it’s directed at him of all fucking people, that he opens the next present on autopilot, not paying much attention—until he is.

His breath catches in his throat and his eyes get huge and he seriously can’t breathe in the absolute best way because holyfuckingjesus Isaac is a comic god. His heart is seriously clutching up, he can’t even believe it. “The—the first Invincible Iron Man? From—from 19— _holycrap_ from 1968. The first one. Ohmygodohmygod _Isaac_ holy shit.” This was almost a bigger deal than Tales of Suspense because it was the first comic that Iron Man was the title character and he just—he couldn’t even function right now. Two Silver Age comics that’re obviously first editions and a Deadpool? He really seriously cannot deal.

He hugs all three of them to his chest, staring at Isaac with huge eyes, and Isaac is still beaming and just…just _holyshitbestbirthdayever_. He stands up and gently places his new comic books on the table, walks over, and hugs Isaac around the shoulders tightly, awed and amazed and…shit, and a little in love. _Fuckshitfuckfuckfuckingshit_. He hears Isaac sigh and then lean his head against Stiles’s shoulder while wrapping one arm around his still-bare waist and oh yeah he’s basically fucking naked. Well. Not naked, just wearing really very too thin shorts. That would leave absolutely nothing to the imagination if he got…excited. He presses a kiss into Isaac’s hair without thinking about it, without even realizing he did it, and pulls away, scooping up the comics. “Leave the dishes, okay? I’m gonna go get ready for school. I’ll be right back. Thank you, Isaac. Seriously—seriously thank you, okay?”

Isaac looks at him, eyes so big you could land a freaking plane on them, and Stiles wonders why he sounds so awed when he says ‘okay,’ wonders why his hand is shaking as it trails into his own mop of bed-fuzzed curls, wonders why he’s staring at Stiles with that look like he’s never seen him before, wonders why his smile cranks up the volume until it might as well be Cyclops’s eyes. It doesn’t hit him until he’s struggling on a pair of jeans, and when it does he goes slack-jawed and just stands there with his pants halfway up his thighs. He just kissed Isaac-fucking-Lahey. Granted, not on the mouth, but he kissed him.

And Isaac _liked it_.


	5. But According To Isaac, He's A Prince Apparently?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Stiles!: Part Two.
> 
> (In which Stiles has to go the whole day at school agonizing about Isaac, and has a little breakdown when he gets home for entirely unrelated reasons. Alternate Title: Why Do You Two Keep Kissing Each Other's Hands?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a bad, bad person for making you guys wait so long, but we're almost through. Promise!
> 
> My sincerest apologies for how bloody long it took me to update. To anyone who was waiting, you're a dear and a darling for sticking with me.
> 
> A special thank you to [karmakaze22](http://karmakaze22.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, for reminding me to update. <3

Stiles somehow manages to finish getting dressed, even though his fingers and arms are shaking god, he’d just done that, he couldn’t fucking believe he’d just done that oh god. And Isaac…hadn’t freaked out. Looked _stoked_. So why is he freaking out right now? Is it because Isaac hadn’t freaked out? Is this…is this a thing that can actually happen for him?

He’s not totally sure where his head’s at at the moment, he’s trying to recapture the feeling of his mouth against Isaac’s hair because god knows he wasn’t paying any attention at all and he _sucks_ for that wow he sucks for that and he’s totally not paying enough attention to realize that he’s wearing his least-favorite t-shirt, the one that doesn’t fit—fuckin’ thing _clings_ , but whatever, he’s already downstairs. Funny, he can’t even remember putting shoes and socks on and grabbing his backpack, but here they are.

And _of course_ Isaac is at the sink, scrubbing at the dishes they’ve used with a long-handled brush so he doesn’t get his cast wet, even though Stiles told him to leave them. Stiles drops his backpack by the front door and then comes back and just watches him for a second, watches his lean-leaning-on-skinny body slumped over the sink, watches his ass sway back and forth as he shifts around and _okay_ , yes, that is enough, not only is he creepy as hell, he’s also letting the dude with the broken arm do dishes, the one task all of human kind freakin' hates—exempting Disney princesses, anyway. So he's an asshole _and_ a perv. He moves then, consciously putting more weight on his steps than necessary, because Isaac jumps when he doesn’t hear people coming in and Stiles doesn’t want a repeat of that glass thing. Not ever, but especially not today.

He clears his throat a little and leans on the counter beside the sink, angling his body so he can look up into Isaac’s face, smiling wide and happy. “So what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Isaac freezes completely, blue eyes going wide again, breath stopping, arms going loose and the plate he was scrubbing coming to rest against the bottom of the sink. It’s only a couple seconds before he visibly gets ahold of himself, and a less observant person might not even notice, but…well, Stiles isn’t a less observant person. Stiles doesn’t freak out—he’s either really good at internalizing his panic naturally or he’s learning how from Isaac.  He just waits.

“Sorry. I just…it’s your birthday. You’re not doing dishes on your birthday, Stiles.” Isaac swallows and Stiles can see his eyes shifting around, like he’s afraid to look at Stiles for too long…like he’s maybe afraid Stiles’ll be _mad_.

Stiles is probably the furthest from mad he’s ever been. He’s actually feeling…kind of playful? And touchy, wow, is he feeling touchy, he just wants to wrap Isaac in a hug and let his face tilt into Isaac’s cheek and maybe kiss him again, but even thinking about it has his heart rabbiting more than usual but he’s not really paying attention to what his arm’s doing what is his arm doing right now?!

His arm. Is draped. Over Isaac’s lower back. His hand contours to Isaac’s side, and Stiles’s face goes blood-red.

Isaac is still. _Very_ still. And okay, yes, Stiles is freaking out now. He is freaking _right_ the hell out, holy shit he’s fucked up so hard and he doesn’t even know how to take it back, doesn’t know what to do—

Isaac’s eyes flutter shut and he lets out the tiniest sigh as color floods his cheeks, and he smiles at Stiles, just barely, before going back to the dish.

A great whooping breath leaves Stiles’s lungs all at once. Okay. Okay. “So what? Is there a rule or something? Is it set in stone that a dude isn’t allowed to wash dishes on the day he turns sixteen?” He tugs Isaac a little, nudging him, trying to get him to laugh, and it works, and Stiles feels such _warmth_ in his chest from that. Oh but does he love Isaac’s laugh.

“Mhm, there’s totally a rule. You’re only supposed to do things you _wanna_ do on your birthday. Nobody wants to wash dishes. Except me. I like washing dishes. Sometimes.” Stiles thinks he probably means times where he doesn’t have to figure out how to do it with only one arm.

“We just have a regular Cinderella in residence, now, don’t we?” He twitched his fingers along Isaac’s side, smiling huge now, wishing he could convey ‘I’m just teasing I’m not making fun of you I’m just teasing please just laugh for me’ with his hand on Isaac. Isaac is usually good about being messed with, he usually thinks it's freaking hilarious as long as Stiles is clear about not making fun, but Stiles is totally over-thinking it, the first thing that pops into his head is ‘oh shit Cinderella’s an orphan, too’ and _it fucking pops out of his mouth oh god_ he wants to slam his head into the wall. He hasn’t taken his medicine yet. That is now priority numero uno. But—but Isaac isn’t pulling away.

“Actually, in the Grimm version, her dad’s still alive, he’s just a dick. I guess people think the story’s more fun if nobody has to worry about blood treating blood like crap, you know? ‘S not exactly a popular theme in film or literature today—dealing with family who aren’t all quirky-dysfuctional, who’re actually genuinely _bad_ people. Honestly though, if we’re going with the Disney version here, yeah, I’d say that’s a good comparison.”

Stiles blinks. This is one of the things he loves about Isaac—Isaac is _good_ at drawing comparisons and exploring themes and basically just sounding like a college lit student, even though he claims that English is his worst subject. He takes stories (in all their forms; books, movies, TV shows) so _seriously_ — _Isaac_ is so serious about things that Stiles likes to be serious about, too, and hang on just a fucking second, _what_? “Dude, dude, are you fucking with me right now? We’re the _step-family_ in this parallel? I am outraged, I am appalled, I am horrified—” _I am unable to talk anymore because Isaac is leaning against me his side flush with my side holy shit I think my heart just tried to explode oh my god did I swallow my tongue I think I swallowed my tongue I need that_ —

“ _Stiles_. No.” Isaac leans his head fully onto Stiles’s shoulder and Stiles is looking at him because he has to, his face set in that expression of amazement and incredulity still but mostly because he’s totally frozen, he doesn’t wanna fuck this up, doesn’t want Isaac to move away from him, but he can only see the top of Isaac’s curly, curly head and it’s not enough, he needs to see Isaac’s face.

He chokes out “Who then?” because it doesn’t seem like Isaac’s going to elaborate and Stiles wants elaboration. Always wants elaboration from everyone on everything, but especially from Isaac. And on this, at least, he’s not afraid to ask.

Isaac tilts his head up without taking it away, and he’s close…so close. Stiles can see each individual eyelash and the startling _depth_ to Isaac’s eyes, the slashes of lighter blue and dots of dark that fizzle through his irises, can see his perfect mouth part just barely and can even see the teeth and tongue inside; it’s one of those moments when the entire world slows down, when _everything_ slows down, and they’re on a precipice and he can feel the drop waiting even if he can’t actually _see_ it right now because he’s lost in that fathomless green-ish gray-ish dark _blue_.

Isaac smiles and Stiles watches the way it lifts the corners of his mouth, notices the crinkles it puts in the corners of his eyes, just barely, fully realizes the depth of his eye sockets and the asymmetry of his face. He knew about those things already, of course he did, they just weren’t exploding in the forefront of his mind and Isaac is so close, so, so close, Stiles can feel warm tickling breath on his skin, and goosebumps raise, he feels as though all the hair on his body is standing at attention, and then:

“You’re my prince.”

Stiles’s eyes fly wide and he’s frozen, totally and utterly frozen, his limbs are locked and the air in his lungs is caught and the flush that never left his cheeks stands firm and he can hear water flowing in the sink and he just…stares. He never wants to move away from Isaac’s face, never wants to stop _seeing_ him like this…but no. No no no no no no—

It’s obvious now that Stiles should’ve responded _somehow_ —fuck he can be really stupid sometimes, he should’ve just said ‘fuck it’ and kissed Isaac right on that beautiful perfectly-defined mouth right fucking then, he really should’ve, why the hell didn’t he—because Isaac abruptly comes back to himself. Stiles watches awareness bloom behind his eyes and he pulls away from Stiles’s shoulder, stands totally on his own power, looks down and away and takes a shuddery breath before rinsing the plate in the sink, setting it in the drainer, rinsing his hands, and turning the water off. He starts to presumably walk away but he looks up at Stiles’s face, and then down, and then at Stiles’s—

Oh. Yeah. Stiles’s arm’s still around his waist. Shit. Stiles pulls it back, full of regret and a semi-sweet sadness because Isaac doesn’t look _upset_ , exactly, just embarrassed all to hell. Which Stiles can understand, because that was maybe kind of a big thing to admit—at least if Stiles chooses to take it that way. Because, he supposes, the prince did kinda save Cinderella from her shit family. Isaac could’ve meant it like that. Under normal circumstances Stiles would find that oh-so-easy to believe.

Except it isn’t, because of Isaac’s reaction to his accidental kiss, but also because of the flirting earlier and the actual smiling with teeth thing that Isaac’s only done twice and both times because of Stiles and the fact that Isaac maybe does the same thing Stiles does with the leaning on the other person for longer than strictly necessary and holyfuck wow yeah he’s even more of an idiot than he thought he was thirty seconds ago.

Isaac likes…Isaac likes _him_. The way _he_ likes Isaac.

Holy shit.

And the only bad thing about any and all of this is that Stiles doesn’t even know what to do with that information. He is completely and utterly shell-shocked, and he feels Isaac watching him as pulls down his pill bottle from the cabinet by the sink and dry-swallows his Adderol, but once that's done Stiles is just...drifting. He has no idea what to do, so when Isaac leaves the kitchen with a weird little half-smile on his face, Stiles follows. 

He follows Isaac over to the table, scoops up his glass of chocolate milk like Isaac does, follows Isaac to the couch (and starts to feel vaguely like a puppy), sits down on the other end of it, and grins when he sees what show Isaac puts on. _Boy Meets World_ always used to come on before he left for school when he was in elementary, and he remembers the plot line vaguely—it’s from Corey’s first day of high school, when he almost gets his ass beat and his brother, Eric, pops up to save him even though he won’t even admit Corey’s his brother.

He gets kinda lost in it, and by the time he glances at the clock above the TV, Ms. Melissa’ll be by to pick him up with Scott in about another five or ten minutes. He figures he should say _something_ about the ‘prince’ thing before he leaves. He turns to Isaac with his mouth open, totally legitimately about to say ‘I’ll be your prince if you want me to,’ because he has to say _something_ , he can’t let it just hang there anymore and it’ll probably be the stupidest thing Isaac’s ever heard in his life…

And Isaac’s asleep, chocolate milk glass wedged between his legs, head lolling back onto the couch, mouth slack and open. Stiles isn’t sure how long he’s been fighting it, but he’s almost grateful Isaac gave in, and only partially so he doesn’t have to see Isaac’s face when he says that. If he says that. Now he kinda has a choice.

Without even really thinking about what he’s doing, he plucks what’s left of Isaac’s drink from between his legs, sets it on the side table, and then leans down. He hooks an arm under Isaac’s legs and another around his waist and slowly _slowly_ moves him so that Isaac’s laying lengthwise across the couch, being maybe more careful than he needs to be but he’s not sure if Isaac’s ribs are still sore and he doesn’t want to jostle his broken arm or anything. Isaac usually wakes up if somebody walks by his bedroom too quick (Isaac leaves the door open more often then not and Stiles sees him jerk up, straight-backed, like a zombie almost, every time Stiles goes by to use the bathroom in the middle of the night) so Stiles assumes he’s a light sleeper, but Isaac stays out. Stiles reaches up and tugs the afghan his mom crocheted off its place of honor on the back of the couch and tucks it over Isaac.

He doesn't do it on purpose. Really. The edge of the blanket’d fallen over Isaac’s mouth and nose and Stiles just reaches up and tucks it down under his chin.

Once the back of his hand hits that smooth, soft skin there’s really no way he can stop himself. He follows the line of Isaac’s chin and jaw, and makes a stuttery little whining sound when Isaac leans into his hand that he can’t really help and he doesn’t think he’s ever made before.

Isaac’s eyes flicker open, just barely, and Stiles freezes again, knows he should jerk his hand away and try to maybe pretend that he wasn’t just pretty much fucking caressing Isaac’s face, but he just leaves his hand against Isaac’s cheek. Isaac’s eyes are totally bedroom, and there’s awareness in them that has Stiles’s eyes growing in his head. Isaac turns his face, eyes locked with Stiles’s. Stiles’s hand falls open and Isaac presses his mouth and nose against it. Stiles feels those lips press a kiss to his palm.

It’s a miracle he doesn’t faint or something. He leaves his hand there, fingers trembling against Isaac’s cheek, until Isaac’s eyes drift closed again.

By then he hears Ms. Melissa (or more likely Scott, even at fifteen he still likes to honk the horn) and he has to force himself to pull his hand away.

 

School is _agonizing_ for so many reasons. Scott asks him five different times why he keeps kissing his hand.

Sometimes Stiles really hates Scott.

And Stiles is obsessing about the whole Isaac-meeting-Scott thing that's about to happen. He just hopes Scott’ll be…careful. He’s a great guy, he really is, but he forgets shit easy and he’s not exactly the epitome of chill—but hey, Isaac likes Stiles, right? And Stiles is not even a semblance of chill. So why is he freaking out so hard about this?

Finally, _finally_ , the bell rings, and he spots his dad waiting for him in the Jeep, big grin on his face and…and is that—is that seriously powdered sugar on his nose? What the _hell_? Dad needs to clean that shit off, people are gonna think he’s doing coke or something, christ.

Scott’s decided to just come with them to the DMV, he's apparently packed all his clothes and whatever other things he decided he needed for this particular sleepover along with Stiles’s present, and Stiles is relieved because as cool as it would be to drive to Scott’s by himself, all he can really think about is…

Shit.

Is getting back to Isaac.

Which is maybe dumb, because they didn’t even talk about what happened. They still might not.

And Stiles still has that fucking ‘prince’ comment floating around in his brain, he’ll fucking die if he actually says that out loud in front of Scott, jesus.

That’s how he finishes his driving test, in a haze of Isaac-fog, and the instructor tells him he passed with flying colors. The round, balding man says he rarely sees such focus in young drivers.

When his dad asks why he’s laughing, Stiles just shakes his head.

They rush through Home Depot because Stiles is pretty much buzzing. He wants to get back to the fucking house. Like now.

Lucky for him it’s easy to figure the perfect color, considering Isaac’s eyes’ve been floating around in his mind all day. It takes less than ten minutes, and Stiles’s dad looks kinda…proud? No, yeah, he totally looks proud.

Not uncommon exactly, but still awesome beyond reason just the same. 

Stiles barely resists running through his ‘Isaac has a broken arm and messed-up ribs no horsing around Scott I’m being serious and don’t be a dick or anything’ speech again as he pulls in the driveway, gnawing the living shit out of his bottom lip because this could go so many ways, and none of it depends on him, it’s all two other people that he has zero control over and since Scott’s here Stiles can’t attempt to…get this started or whatever? Or…or stop it? 

Not that he _wants_ to stop it, obviously.

His eyes flick to his dad and then back to the gear shift as he puts the car in park and pulls up the parking break.

He can’t even fathom how his dad’s gonna react. If he reacts. If anything happens.

Fuck, this isn’t supposed to be this confusing. Is it?

 

Isaac’s pacing back and forth, trying not to freak out. Stiles’s dad’d said it looked good, Isaac thinks it looks good, but he has no idea what Stiles is going to think. Blue and orange crepe paper streamers line either side of the entryway to the kitchen, and that’s pretty much the only decoration, but Isaac’s more anxious about the cake than anything. He’d been woken up at one by Stiles’s dad and actually hadn’t jumped or freaked out or anything, mostly because he’d passed out on the couch and he’d expected to be woken up, but also because they're making cake, and any and all baked goods are reason enough to be excited instead of scared, even if Isaac totally sucks at baking. Isaac probably didn’t mess it up because the Sheriff was helping, but ‘probably’ isn’t ‘definitely’, so he’s still nervous.

So when the door opens, if he looked a little terrified, it’s only natural.

Stiles’s dad’s through first, with a little smile and a pat on the shoulder for him, and he doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t even think to. They’d had a ‘talk’ over baking the cake—during which the Sheriff _actually asked if he and Stiles were dating and afraid to tell him_ , and if Isaac could survive the humiliation that came with stuttering out ‘no sir but I think I want us to be would that be okay would that make you mad it’s okay if it would we can just not’ so fast he thought it might not’ve made any sense, then he could survive Stiles’s dad patting him, just like he had then. Then he laughed for about ten minutes and said ‘yeah, no, it’s fine, feel free’ and Isaac was pretty sure he was going to pass out.

Today is awesome.

Then it’s Stiles, looking awkward and nervous and beautiful, and Isaac smiles full, because Stiles is exactly who he wants to see. Stiles returns it, dropping his backpack by the door, and Scott comes in and yeah, Isaac is fucking stupid, he’s _totally_ met Scott before. He smiles a little wider and points with his good arm just as Scott points with his, and he could almost be looking into a mirror if the coloring wasn’t completely different and Isaac wasn’t about three inches taller and if Isaac didn’t have a cast. “Hey—aren’t you in my English class? And the lacrosse team?” They look at each other for a moment, astonished, because they’ve spoken in perfect tandem.

Scott moves forward immediately, grinning, and Stiles lingers behind. Isaac’s eyes keep straying to him, because Stiles is somewhere he _can_ look so he wants to, that simple. He’s listening to Scott, sure, but he’s having a hard time focusing. “So you live with Stiles now, yeah? That’s pretty cool, right? What’d _you_ get him?”

Isaac smiles a little wider and waves Scott and Stiles toward the counter, pretending to miss the irritated look Stiles shoots Scott, because it’s not like Isaac’s _offended_ or anything, he doesn’t know why Stiles would be. “Yeah, it’s pretty awesome. I just got him some comic books. Guess I’ll see what you got him in a minute, right?”

Scott’s grin also grows and he nods, and Isaac feels like they have immediate chemistry. They’re gonna be friends, that’s obvious and definite, and that makes Isaac feel good, that’s nice. Stiles still isn’t quite smiling, though, and Isaac has to fix that. He reaches out and takes Stiles’s hand, lacing their fingers together, feels the blush spread over his own cheeks even as he watches a similar one darken Stiles’s own skin, but yeah, Stiles smiles, so Isaac’s good. “C’mon, you gotta tell me what you think of the cake.” Isaac makes a semi-grand gesture at the frosting-slathered thing with his cast, narrowly missing thunking it and getting icing all over it (again), and Scott claps. Yeah, they’re totally gonna be friends.

For a second there Stiles just looks at it with his mouth hanging open, and then his whole bottom jaw trembles and his mouth snaps shut. Isaac hears his teeth click. He looks at his father and then at Isaac in almost an accusatory way, and then back at his dad. He chokes out “you baked?” at his father, and his hand clenches on Isaac’s. Stiles is trembling all over.

For the first time Isaac feels completely out of place. He has no idea whatsoever what would’ve prompted this response, no idea what Stiles is feeling right now, no idea _what to do to stop him feeling it or make it better_ , that’s the big one. It’s sticking in his throat, sticking _hard_ , and he’s just standing there holding Stiles’s hand with his mouth half open, looking between the Sheriff and Stiles in a state that’s not quite absolute panic—but it's getting real close, quick.

Scott steps up and puts a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, but Stiles jerks away. Isaac doesn’t know what it means, that Stiles’ll touch him and not his best friend. Isaac doesn’t know what it means, that the Sheriff is now standing against the counter with his hands up, palms facing out, as if in surrender.

Stiles chokes out “I need a minute” and lets go of Isaac’s hand, and Isaac is incredibly close to just tearing off after him as fast as his legs’ll carry him. First, though, as soon as he hears the thumping that is Stiles traversing the stairs (at an even faster pace than he seems to go normally), Isaac turns to Stiles’s dad, who’s still standing there, frozen, eyes a little wider than usual.

“Mr. Stilinski, what just happened?”

Stiles’s dad blinks for a few seconds, then shakes his head. “I’m not entirely sure, son. Best to leave him alone until he’s settled down, though. Party’s postponed.” The Sheriff is then off to the living room in quick, long strides, and it seems like that’s case closed.

Isaac faces Scott, then, who looks distinctly less panicked than he should look. “What. Just. Happened.” Isaac is insistent, a little pleading—he can’t help it. He’s desperate to know, and the only other person to ask is Stiles, and he’s not sure if he can _do_ that.

“Uh? I got as much outta that as you, dude.”

Isaac is a little dumbstruck, but words come out without his permission, without forethought. “And you’re not freaking out right now be _cause_ …”

Scott half-smiles at him. “Um, dude, I dunno how long you’ve been around, but Stiles is…he doesn’t talk about it. Won’t talk about it, maybe can’t, but the point is it’s easier for everybody if you just leave him alone until he goes back to ignoring whatever issue he’s having, you know? I don’t even ask anymore, if ignoring it is what he wants…” Scott shrugs, seemingly oblivious to the open-mouthed thousand yard stare Isaac’s giving him. “I mean, I’m not gonna force him to talk to me or anything. He’ll be fine in like ten minutes as long as he has his space. Maybe less.”

All of this sounds like utter bullshit to Isaac. If people’ve been letting Stiles _ignore_ whatever’s upsetting him by ignoring _Stiles_ , how the hell is he supposed to know that people care and are listening and want to help him out? That the people in his life are ready to talk whenever he is? How can he know that? “You don’t even go—go check on him and make sure if he’s okay or anything?”

Isaac kind of expects Scott to be pissed about having his methods questioned or something, but Scott just looks a little confused. “We—we know he’s not? What’s there to check for?”

And now _Isaac_ is pissed, Isaac is really, genuinely mad. He shoots Scott a look of contempt and the shock-y semi-fear on Scott’s face is enough to make him reel it in. “Yeah, I’m gonna go check on him and try to talk to him. I just—I don’t really understand how you can do that, I guess. Just…just not. Worry about it.”

And _now_ Scott looks a little offended. “ _Hey_. I _am_ worried about it—very worried, about him and how he’s dealing with stuff and—but look, look, I’m just doing what he asked me to do. What he asked his dad to do. Don’t ask him, and he won’t tell.”

Isaac’s mouth twists down and to the side in a semi-angry pucker. “He never said that to me. As far as I’m concerned, that act’s repealed. I’m gonna go ask, and he can keep on not telling if he wants, but he’s gotta know I’m _listening_ at least, if he wants to talk.”

Scott looks slightly wounded again, but Isaac doesn’t take it back. The dark-eyed boy whispers “I’d like to think he knows I’m listening” as Isaac heads toward the stairs, and Isaac has to say it.

“He probably does. But he’s gotta know _I_ am, too.” He starts up the stairs and tries not to think about the 'conversation' he’s probably going to be having with the Sheriff later, about directly disobeying him. He gets goosebumps but keeps going anyway. This is worth getting hurt. _Stiles_ is worth getting hurt.

Funny how just two months ago Isaac would’ve said the only thing worth getting hurt for was surviving, or avoiding a bigger hurt.

Or maybe it’s not, Isaac’s not in a very good state to figure out what’s laugh-worthy and what’s not right now.

 

He can’t hear anything through the door to Stiles’s room, and that scares him more than sobbing would. Stiles mouth-breathes when he’s asleep and sometimes talks and there’s almost always music coming from his room but it’s not usually _quiet_. If this is an anger that transcends noise, Isaac should probably be scared out of his mind.

For once, he’s not afraid, at least not of Stiles or what Stiles might do to him. He’s afraid _for_ Stiles, sure, but that’s what’s spurring him forward, not what’s holding him back.

What’s holding him back is that he knows this is a breach of privacy, however much he thinks it’s a necessary one. Stiles’d said he needed a minute, hadn’t strictly said ‘leave me alone’ but might as well have, and Isaac is here anyway.

“Stiles?” He calls it softly and knocks a little.

“I-Isaac?” The tentative, lost way it’s called is enough to sell him on going in, regardless of privacy or anything else. Stiles maybe doesn’t _need_ Isaac specifically but he could use _somebody_ , and Isaac likes being useful.

Especially for Stiles.

 

He opens the door and is greeted with the tantalizing and fantasy-worthy sight of Stiles with his ass in the air, but Isaac blinks away _that_ weirdness to realize that Stiles has his head under the pillow, barely peeking out to look at him, and…

Oh fuck.

And there are tear-streaks. Stiles has cried twice today, on his _birthday_ , and this second time may very well be Isaac’s fault. “H-hey.” Stiles sniffs a little and wipes at his eyes—he even starts to get _up_ , but Isaac shakes his head and Stiles pauses, looking confused.

Isaac shuts the door even though it makes the dimensions of the room stand out stark and clear and _that_ kinda bothers him. He walks over, sits down beside Stiles’s torso, leans against his side a little, and starts carding his fingers through Stiles’s hair. It’s the only thing he knows to do. He knows he should probably say something, but he can’t quiet yet. He wants to ask, but he has to work himself up to it.

Stiles lets him. Doesn’t say a word, doesn’t ask him what the fuck he’s doing here, just sighs and lets his eyes drift shut. It’s exactly what Isaac needs.

“Hey. So what happened?” His voice is low and quiet, his attempt to be soothing, and Stiles’s eyes don’t even open. For a minute Isaac wonders if he’s gone to sleep, and then…

“Dad baked.”

Okay, that’s getting somewhere, Isaac guesses. He keeps up his steady motion and bites his lip, feeling fear build up in his chest and threaten to keep him from speaking, but he speaks anyway. “Um. Yeah, that’s my fault. I suck at making anything that requires exact measurements. He helped. A lot. Sorry. I’m…sorry.” He doesn't know _why_ he's sorry, but that doesn't change the fact that he _is_.

Stiles slowly, slowly turns his head so he’s facing Isaac a little more, and his eyes open slowly. Isaac has no idea what’s about to happen, Isaac is scared half out of his mind now—“Oh.” He just looks at Isaac then, and Isaac doesn’t know what to say, so he moves his hand and starts to stroke Stiles’s cheek gently with his thumb. Stiles is twisting himself up leaning into it, so Isaac leans his back up and Stiles flips over, never moving his face away from Isaac’s hand. Stiles flicks the pillow off his face and it lands on the floor.

“I’m sorry. I..I didn’t know it would bother you.”

Stiles’s eyebrows quirk together. “Dude, ‘s not that he baked with _you_. Okay, maybe a little, but it’s not _your_ fault. He just…hasn’t. Since. My mom.” Stiles’s eyes squeeze shut again and he takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. “Since my mom died.” It comes out in a rush, and Isaac wishes he had the use of both his hands. He wants to hold Stiles’s face between them, or maybe just pick him up and hold _him_.

Right now Isaac could say a million stupid things. He could completely mess this up. His first instinct is to apologize again, but every time someone does that to _him_ about his mom or his brother or, now, his father, it makes him want to throw something. The slightly more clear ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ also irritates him to no end, because it seems to imply that he was the one who did the losing, not the person who died. He wants to ask ‘how’, because he doesn’t know, Stiles and his dad don’t _talk_ about her, but he doesn’t want Stiles to have to go farther into that place today. He almost asks ‘you really miss her, huh?’ but if there’s a stupider question he’s never heard it.

What finally winds up coming out of his mouth is “You wanna help next time?” He wants to add on ‘will that help will that make it better’ but he can’t quite do it, and that’s probably a good thing.

Stiles’s whole body relaxes, and he nods, and his eyes stay closed, and Isaac just looks at him. Watches him. Stiles murmurs “hasn’t done it with me” and Isaac feels _awful_.

“Stiles, have you asked?”

Stiles’s eyes and mouth open at the same time, wide and confused, but then his mouth closes and his eyebrows knit together. He’s looking at Isaac, but not really. Isaac thinks he’s thinking. Finally, a sigh, and Stiles’s face relaxes. “No, I guess I haven’t.”

Isaac nods a little, like that settles it. “Well there you go. I’m sure he will if you ask.”

Stiles’s hand covers Isaac’s then, and Isaac is pretty sure his heart just tried to explode or evaporate or something. “You’re so smart, Isaac.”

…Okay? Isaac’s never heard _that_ one before. “T-thanks? Say that when I go back to school, though.” He shakes his head a little but he smiles again, in that full way that only Stiles ever seems to get him to.

Stiles looks at him a bit more seriously than warranted, and it’s at that moment that Isaac realizes that the tears’ve stopped streaking down his face. “Oh, I will, don’t worry.” Stiles half-smiles and Isaac feels entirely lost for a few moments before he remembers that Scott and Stiles’s dad are probably waiting for them.

“Um…are you ready to go downstairs?”

Stiles nods a little, but he sighs again as he gets up, and Isaac leaves his hand on Stiles’s face, and Isaac thinks this another moment in which they probably ought to kiss, with Stiles sitting up and Isaac leaning over him, but he’s not quite willing to go for it and Stiles seems content to just lean against his hand. After a few moments that seem like three seconds and six hours (a closer estimate is probably a single minute, but Isaac is a bit infatuated and he can’t stop thinking of Stiles’s palm under his lips, Stiles’s lips in his hair, and the way his hand feels against Stiles's cheek; he figures he’s allowed a little exaggeration), Stiles stands up and offers Isaac his hand.

Isaac takes it, and they go back downstairs together, fingers laced. Isaac's tentative little smile grows because they keep catching each other's eyes, and when they do, Stiles smiles a little more, too.

And if Isaac almost breaks his _other_  arm going down the stairs because he's not paying attention, well, that's fine.

Stiles would be worth that hurt, too.


	6. But That's Okay (It's Okay, He's Okay, They're Okay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Stiles!: Part Three.
> 
> (In which there is lots of happy and a little sad, because that's just who they are, but things turn out alright in the end.
> 
> They always will, because Stiles and Isaac will always make them. [And okay yeah Stiles's dad and Scott help a little shhh])

Once they get back, things move fairly quickly. Apparently the rule is always ‘cake first, presents later’ in the Stilinski household, so cake happens, and after Stiles makes his wish and they sing as loudly and as badly as they can (Isaac is unaware of this tradition, but he catches on before the second ‘Happy Birthday’ and tries to make up for it in volume), Stiles talks about how awesome the cake is for almost three solid minutes.

Scott’s the one to roll his eyes and say ‘shut up and stuff it, _literally_ , Stiles’, because Isaac is too busy listening and beaming and Stiles's dad looks pretty content with the rambling praise as well.

While they attack the cake, Isaac talks to Scott about superheroes (has a little trouble with the fact that Scott only really likes the Fantastic Four—Isaac can’t freaking _stand_ them) and about TV shows and movies. It becomes clear to him that Scott is on a different level than Stiles and himself fairly quickly. That’s not a _bad_ thing, and Isaac doesn’t think it makes Scott any less of a fan or whatever they can be considered—Scott just doesn’t obsess like they do, and Isaac doesn’t really understand how that works but that doesn’t mean he’s going to be a judgmental asshole.

Stiles has no problem with being one, so it seems, because when Scott says that he doesn’t really like the Lord of the Rings movies he flicks a glob of icing at Scott with surprising accuracy for someone on second string. “And you suck for making me waste that, dude. This icing is freaking _awesome_. But yeah, you shut up. You’re not allowed to not like them, I told you that already.”

Scott swipes the icing off his face and eats it, shaking his head and laughing. Isaac doesn’t think he looks deterred. “Yes, you have tried to beat that into me several, several times, but it’s just not gonna work, man. I am not gonna watch over seven hours of walking without complaining. It’s just not gonna happen. I still say they should’ve just taken those freaking eagles or something.”

Stiles drops his head on the table and sighs. Isaac is pretty sure they’ve played out this melodrama several times, and Stiles is amping it up a little for his benefit. Isaac is grateful—it’s entertaining beyond reason. “ _Scott_. They are not movies about walking, and the extended editions are eleven hours long all put together, and they are _awesome,_ and _the eagles are not a taxi service_. Ugh, why am I even friends with you.”

“I dunno, if literally the entire movie is about getting from Point A to Point B and huge scenes are just ‘copter shots of them half-jogging in New Zealand, then yeah, it’s totally a movie about walking. Very occasionally riding horses. And those eagles looked like a taxi service to me, there at the end. You’re friends with me because we go places together that are not the movies, Stiles, and you need that, and it’s easier to remember to not be a shut-in when you have a friend that’s not one.” Scott raises his eyebrows and sips his milk.

Stiles’s head raises and he just _stares_ at Scott, and then looks over at Isaac. “Can you _believe_ him? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize his taste was this bad or I wouldn’t’ve tainted your life with this interaction. _You_ get the eagles, right? And—and why they couldn’t’ve just flown ‘em in in the first place? And that it’s not a movie about walking? Right? Please?”

Stiles’s dad opens his mouth and gets out “Well I think—” before Stiles cuts him off with a “Nobody was asking you, Dad,” but they’re both grinning and the Sheriff laughs, so that’s okay then.

Isaac’s eyes flick back and forth between Scott and Stiles for a moment before focusing back on Stiles. “Well. Um. If…if you put it like that, it _is_ a movie about walking, but every movie and every, you know, journey, is about getting from Point A to Point B, so you could say that every movie _ever_ is about walking…unless, you know, the protagonist is in a wheelchair or something, and then it’s rolling I guess? And there are some journeys that aren’t physical, but metaphorically, it works. And yes, Stiles, I get the eagles—they’re a plot device only used because Tolkien didn’t want to write Sam and Frodo going home. I kinda hate those birds, and I feel like they take away a lot of the epic scope of the journey, and they can be justified, but only if you care enough to. So. Yeah. I see where Scott’s coming from, but I see where you, are, too, so…yeah. Yeah.” Isaac’s been blushing steadily because Stiles is looking at him like…well, like he wants to come across the table and kiss him, and only yesterday Isaac would’ve told himself that was stupid, but it’s _not_ , because he’s pretty sure Stiles _does_.

He finally turns his eyes back to Scott and half-smiles at him, and Scott is also looking at him funny, but not like ‘kiss’ funny, which is a really, really good thing. “Dude. _Isaac_. Holy crap, dude. Wow. How come you don’t talk about stuff like this in English? Ms. Landon’d marry you, I bet.”

Isaac shrugs and looks down at his plate. “We don’t talk about Lord of the Rings. Or The Hobbit.”

“Maybe you ought to.” That’s Stiles’s dad, and when Isaac looks up he’s got kind of a thinking look on his face that Isaac doesn’t like that much, it weirds him out. But there’s a little smile on his face, so that’s okay, too.

 

Finally the cake is done, the paper plates are in the trash, the forks are in the sink, the four surviving slices are in the fridge (looking a little like a bloody carcass to Isaac), and Stiles is sitting at the table with his dad on one side and Scott on the other and two packages on the table in front of him. Isaac is by Scott, and he can’t stop grinning.

The first one Stiles opens is from his dad, and it’s the Jeep’s car keys. Isaac knows that Stiles knew it was his anyway, but Stiles still tears up a little and clutches the keys to his chest with more fondness than Isaac understands. Scott just looks sympathetic, and Isaac guesses that the Jeep was Stiles’s mom’s car. Maybe he’ll ask one day.

The next one’s from Scott, and it’s a graphic novel— _Watchmen_. Stiles looks a little confused, but excited regardless, and Isaac’s excited _for_ him—Alan Moore may be totally nuts, but he did a great job with that cynical take on superheroes, and Isaac adores the book. Apparently Scott does too. “I know it looks a little weird, but I promise, after you read it, you’ll _love_ it. I’m not even that into comics, and I thought it was amazing. As good as the movie, easy.”

“No, no, it’s awesome, man! I’ve been wanting to read it, I just haven’t picked it up yet. Thank you. Seriously. You saw me with Alan Moore’s _Tomorrow Stories_ —or maybe _V for Vendetta_ , didn’t you?”

Scott’s face slips into confusion in the corner of Isaac’s eye, but Isaac’s not paying attention to him much anymore. “You don’t.” Now _he’s_ the one who looks like he’s about to come across the table, and he doesn’t even care. Because he kind of is, if he hears what he thinks he’s about to. He doesn’t know anyone else who likes Alan Moore, not even the few people he occasionally talks to at the comic book shop— _Cam_ didn’t even read _Tomorrow Stories_ , and Isaac _loves_ them.

Stiles is looking at Isaac with about the same intensity. “I do.” His voice is lower than Isaac remembers ever hearing it before and sends a skitter of electricity down his spine.

Then Stiles’s dad clears his throat. “Not at the table, boys.” Scott bursts into laughter and after a moment the Sheriff joins him, but Isaac’s too humiliated to do more than blush.

Across the table, Stiles is giving him a look that says he understands exactly how he feels.

That look also whispers ‘later’, and Isaac’s trying not to think about it, but it makes him shiver anyway.

 

Isaac stands by the microwave, listening to see if _that_ ‘pop’ was the last one. Scott stands beside him twisting his fingers. Suddenly Stiles blurts “bathroom” and then bolts—not an uncommon occurrence. Scott seems to take this as a signal, though, and steps up to Isaac, eyeing him and moving a little too close for Isaac’s comfort.

Isaac steps back and Scott steps forward. “Scott…? What're y—”

“Do you like Stiles?” It’s out fast and excited, like Scott’s been building himself up to ask all night.

And yeah, Isaac half-expected this, but why the hell is Scott standing so fucking close to him? “Is…I mean, it’s obvious, right?”

Scott fist-pumps startlingly close to Isaac’s face and then hugs him around the ribs and picks him up and squeezes, and Isaac’s screaming before he really registers he’s making noise. He always hates it when that happens; he’s usually really good at staying quiet. His ribs feel _better_ but they still fucking _hurt_ when pressure’s applied like that, and it’s like he’s all hot, sharp rocks and _pain_ for a minute. Scott drops him and _he_ drops because he really wasn’t expecting that, and winds up sitting on his legs and wheezing, tears streaming down his face in involuntary reaction.

Scott crouches down and then gets on his knees, apologizing too-fast and over and over with wide eyes and looking like he’s about to cry, but Isaac just shakes his head. “No, no, it’s fine, it’s fine, I’m fine, my ribs are just messed up, don’t freak out. Just help me up before Stiles sees, seriously, c’mon, Scott, I’m okay, just help me up—”

The Sheriff’s suddenly in the room with his gun drawn—thankfully not pointed at anyone or with his finger on the trigger, and Isaac is weirdly reassured instead of being super freaked out and horrified. “Everything alright here, boys?”  The gun hides away in its holster and Stiles’s dad is crouching down beside Isaac, hand cupping the back of his head like he’s afraid Isaac’s gonna faint, and that makes Isaac a _lot_ more anxious than the gun thing did.

“Um, sir? Can you not—” Isaac is good with non-prologed contact, but, nothing against the Sheriff, being touched for more than thirty seconds by a man over sixteen is scary as shit for him. Scary enough that he actually has to say something about it, which is pathetic but he can't really help it.

“Yeah, son, sorry, I just—you’re okay, right? You’re okay?” Stiles’s dad takes his hand away but stays crouched in front of him, light-green eyes bordering on blue staring into his with such fear it makes Isaac’s throat close up for a second.

He has to swallow five times before he can speak. “Mhm. I—my ribs.  Hurt. And my legs stopped working. I’m sorry.”

Stiles’s dad actually flinches at that. “No, no, don’t be. It’s okay. You don’t have anything to be sorry for, kiddo.” He starts to stand and then remembers Scott. “Scott. Are _you_ okay? What _happened_ , you two?”

“I…I hugged him. Like way too hard. I’m _really_ sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, I just—I forgot about y-your ribs, I’m sorry…” And of course Scott starts crying then. There’s no way that Stiles isn’t gonna find out about this. Isaac didn’t want Stiles to have to deal with anything else not-awesome today, but of course he’s going to have to.

It’s a part of dealing with himself in general, he guesses. There’s always gonna be bad stuff.

He pulls _himself_ forward and it still hurts a little, but it’s not as bad as it was when the pressure was there. Just the normal jabbing needle-y feeling that is his ribs letting him know he’s moving. It would’ve been easier if he had someone’s arm, so he could lean more towards his good side, but oh well.

He hugs Scott and Scott’s hiccuping a little and it hurts to stretch his side like this, but oh well. The contact isn’t his favorite thing in the whole world, but it’s not scary, mostly because Scott is crying, which makes him look about six, and he’s a little smaller than Isaac is. Scott starts to hug him back and then stops and Isaac shakes his head. “‘S okay, you can hug me, just don’t squeeze.” So Scott does and doesn’t and Stiles slides in on his socked feet, almost falling over, eyes wild and mouth gaping and sucking down air like he left the bathroom at the fastest sprint he’s ever sprinted. Isaac can see that his hands are trembling.

He’s gasping a little bit, but he still manages to ask—“Wh-what ha-oh my god-what happened?” He’s clutching his side like he has a stitch in it and Isaac opens his mouth to say ‘nothing’.

Scott pulls away from Isaac a little and settles his cheek against Isaac’s cheek so they can both look at Stiles and Isaac thinks it’s a little weird, weird enough that he actually says nothing literally, like not a single word and just knits his eyebrows together while raising them simultaneously and pulls his head away, but apparently Scott doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “I—I forgot. I’m sorry. I hugged him and I picked him up a little and yeah…I suck.” Scott finally pulls the rest of the way away and swipes at his nose, and Stiles’s dad ruffles through his hair.

Stiles looks like he’s swapping between livid and terrified, and he doesn’t spare his friend (whose tears look like they’re drying up, thank god, Isaac really doesn’t like it when people cry) a second glance. Isaac can hear his knees crack as he settles on the tile as close as he can get without actually sitting on anyone’s lap. “Are—are you okay? Dad? Is he okay?” He doesn’t even look at his father and Isaac really fucking wishes everyone’d get off the floor, jesus christ it’s not that big a deal.

Apparently the Sheriff agrees with him, and he pulls Scott up. “He says he’s fine, Stiles.”

“Yeah, it’s not that big a deal, I’m _fine_ , seriously. It was an accident and it’s not a big deal and it doesn’t hurt, Stiles. Will—I’m sorry, will you help me up?” The question’s tentative, as it always is when he has to ask a direct one, but it doesn’t seem like Stiles even registers it.

Stiles reaches forward and ghosts his fingers along the line of his cheekbone and Isaac kind of doesn’t want this to be where they kiss for the first time, but at the same time he really, really wants to kiss Stiles so he doesn’t even care that much, but Stiles’s dad clears his throat again. Stiles turns to look at him, eyes dazed, and Mr. Stilinski says “Stiles, Isaac asked for some help up.”

Stiles shakes his head and then nods, stands up and offers Isaac the arm opposite his good one. Isaac’s grateful for the consideration and gets his legs under him easily, but he doesn’t let go of Stiles’s hand.

He’s trapped in that amber color, feels like he’s being sucked forward into them, and he finally understands why they call it ‘falling’ because you really _do_.

The popcorn actually catches fire.

The Sheriff’s the only one who notices. Scott's wandered into the living room, Stiles still looks like someone hit him over the head with something, and Isaac...

Isaac is still falling.

  

So, an hour after what will forever be referred to as The Popcorn Incident of 2011, at least as far as Stiles is concerned, Stiles, Isaac, and Scott are on the couch, his dad’s in the armchair, they all have huge bowls of Moo-lenium Crunch ice cream, and they’re watching Stiles’s second present from his father, the one he doesn’t unwrap but turns on the TV and presses play to discover: Season One of BBC Sherlock.

Well, his dad and Scott are.

He and Isaac are more watching each other.

Stiles is pretty freakin’ embarrassed at his own behavior a little while ago, Isaac was more calm than _any_ of them—but granted, Isaac’d known why he'd been screaming. After Stiles’d determined he couldn’t get ahold of his dad’s service pistol without going into the kitchen, he’d decided to just go in blind and without a weapon, pretty sure he was going to wet himself when he saw Isaac on the floor like that—but everything was okay. He had a hard time comprehending it at first, but everything was okay.

It says a lot about this family that if a member of it screams everybody’s first thought is ‘murderer’ or something instead of ‘cockroach’.

And holy shit, okay, yeah, Isaac is officially included in ‘family’ now. That’s…that’s almost _painfully_ wonderful. He reaches behind Scott’s back—ugh Scott is such a fucking cockblock—and runs his fingers over the quarter-sleeve of Isaac’s shirt, half-smiling. The sleeve is all warped because the cast has stretched it to shit, but Stiles isn’t really thinking about that.

He’s thinking about the looks they keep exchanging, the way Isaac’s hand feels in his, the fact that he hasn’t put his mouth on Isaac’s yet and he really needs to do that.

And, of course, the fact that about thirty minutes ago, after everyone’d recovered from said Popcorn Incident 2011, his dad took him to the side while Isaac and Scott playfully debated about who was better, Bayside or Foster The People.

 

The argument was playful because they both liked both bands, and it was really cute, they kept forgetting who was arguing for which band. Stiles didn’t actually want to be pulled away.

But after his dad said what he said, well, Stiles was grateful as hell, even though it was equally or more-so as embarrassing as the whole ‘being so lost in Isaac’s eyes that he let popcorn that was less than six inches away from him catch fire’ or the ‘almost kissing the guy almost two-dozen times today’ or the ‘crying twice today what the fuck even is that god’ things that happened previous.

“You know I’ll love you both no matter what, right?”

Stiles had no fucking clue what he was talking about. “Yeeaaah…I’m aware, Dad. What’s up?”

“I mean, there’re gonna be a few ground rules if you two decide to get together, this isn’t Amsterdam or something, but don’t let me be a thing that stops you, okay?”

Stiles just stared at him, comprehending but amazed out of his damn mind. “Dad. Seriously?” For once he’s solemn instead of whining when he asks for reassurance that his dad’s not joking.

His dad nods. “Mhm. Seriously. I’m not stupid, Stiles—I see the way you two look at each other. And it _might_ be a little weird for you when I ask if Isaac wants to have his name changed, but me legally adopting him isn’t gonna make him your actual blood kin and—oh god, _what_ , Stiles?”

Stiles’d been shaking his head since he heard the word ‘name’, and he spat out what he’d been thinking without really worrying about it. “ _Nuh-uh_ , Dad, _you_ can’t change his last name, _I_ wanna do that.” Once he realized that he’d verbalized that thought, though, yeah, he heard his own crazy and slapped his hand over his mouth. What the fuck was he _thinking_. _Sixteen_ , for chrissake. Just now _today_ sixteen. And Isaac wouldn't be sixteen ‘til _September_. Jesus.

His dad’s eyebrows were somewhere up in his hairline and he was obviously trying not to smile, and Stiles knew this look. This look that said ‘Uh, yeah, oookay, Stiles, you say you want a boa constrictor _today_ , but once you realize it sometimes eats the mice that are alive and you have to feed it one you’ve named, you’re gonna ask me if we can take it back to the pet store.’ And yeah, his dad’d been right _then_ , he’d cried for half an hour because he didn’t want to feed Chomsky to his boa—he was a _different_ mouse, he had serious _soul_ —but this was _not_ an incident like that’d been.

 

Now he finds himself stupidly thinking “Isaac is way cuter than mice” as Isaac’s head turns up to him, and he has a little chocolate ice cream foam on the corner of his lip, and he’s just…looking. Watching.

Like he’s waiting for something.

Stiles gets chills. He finally tears his eyes away and realizes his bowl’s empty—pity, he can’t even remember eating any, and it’s his favorite kind—and he pulls his hand back a little regretfully and stands. His dad doesn’t even take his eyes off the screen, just holds up his bowl, and Stiles takes it. “Refill, dad?”

His head shakes and his eyes hold the screen. Stiles smiles. He thinks maybe his dad has a little bit of a man-crush on Martin Freeman. Well, he’d be kinda crazy not to.

Isaac’s standing now, too, taking Scott’s empty bowl from his limp hands and trying to lean Scott back onto the couch. Scott’s asleep on Isaac’s shoulder and Stiles feels a bolt of jealousy before he goes over to help, pressing Scott’s shoulders against the back of the couch (one side with the bowls) while Isaac eases himself up and out of his niche by the arm of it. Scott’s never this easy to move when he’s passed out, and Stiles isn’t sure _why_ he’s faking sleep, exactly, but he’s grateful.

They go wordlessly into the kitchen together, and Isaac has pretty decent ears, too, so Stiles is assuming he’s also ignoring the slap of palm-on-palm they hear behind them as they cross from the hardwood to the linoleum.

Stiles is pretty sure Scott and his dad just high-fived. The fuck even, god his friend and his dad are the weirdest people.

Isaac immediately heads to the sink and starts the water, but Stiles walks up and bumps his hip with Isaac’s. “Hey. Nuh-uh, let me do it, okay?”

Isaac’s eyebrows raise. “We talked about this, remember? Only things you want to do.”

Stiles nods. “Mhm, and occasionally your prince wants to wash dishes, okay? You’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

Stiles can’t help but grin at Isaac’s expression—he doesn’t know how someone can look so delighted and so confused at the same time. Stiles sets his own bowls in the sink and pushes on Isaac with his hip until he’s standing in front of the drainer instead of the side of the sink they actually use, washing the dishes a little less efficiently than normal because Isaac switches sides and _woah_ , okay, Isaac is totally mimicking him, he would be amused if his brain was actually working, holy fuck Isaac’s good arm is around his lower back and Stiles leans into it like it’s nothing, like they do this all the time.

They should do this all the time.

He shakes his head and tries to concentrate, but it’s hard with Isaac’s thumb rubbing up and down the curve of his side. Then he realizes he's being an idiot and actually tries to take a little longer, because having Isaac’s arm wrapped around him is _good_ , but he’s scrubbed at the same spoon for what feels like five minutes and he’s totally wasting water (not to mention Isaac has to've noticed by now) so he rinses it, drops it in the drainer, rinses his hands, turns the skin off, and then turns fully to Isaac, putting a hand on his shoulder and then sighing, giving up, and letting his wet hand trail onto Isaac’s neck. He watches his own thumb move on the soft skin there instead of looking into Isaac’s eyes, because if he does that, there’s no way he’s going to be able to refrain from kissing him.

“Okay, look, we…we need to talk about this, okay? I…I like you.” There, he’s said it. It’s out and it’s official and he can’t take it back and he doesn’t want to. “And, considering the ‘prince’ thing and the 'you kissing my hand' and the way you stare and I stare back…I think you like me, too. So…yes. I…I want to be your prince, but you don’t have to be my princess or anything, you can just be _my_ prince, the Deadpool to my Hydra Bob, the Cap’ to my Iron Man, but the difference between those last two relationships and us is that we’re not gonna be all in love with each other and never admit it, right?” Where the _fuck_ had that whole last half come from, oh god he wasn’t coherent, Isaac was either about to laugh his ass off or pull away—

“Stiles.”

Stiles looks up into Isaac’s face and it’s near-fucking impossible to hold himself away, but he does it, because Isaac has something to say and Stiles isn’t going to deny him that by fitting his mouth over Isaac’s and taking away his words, no matter how much he wants to.

“Why do you think my walls are Hydra green? You’re _my_ Deadpool, without the insanity and all—you’re my Batman plus a dad and minus a Robin…or maybe not, I guess that’s Scott—you’re my Iron Man and I’d love to be your Captain America…and yeah, you’re my prince, and I guess now I’m yours. So. I’m pretty sure that was us admitting it. But even if that makes all the superheroes bad examples, you’re still _my_ hero, Stiles.”

The sincerity in Isaac’s voice, the half-flinching expression on his face even as he pours out his fucking heart without even flinching or stuttering or anything, absolutely floors Stiles. He can’t respond, though he wants to—it seems Isaac is the only one with the ability to silence him. His words aren’t enough, and his thoughts aren’t enough, his hand on Isaac’s neck’s not enough…he doesn’t know how to tell Isaac how much he adores him.

So finally, with wet hands and the most erratic heartbeat he’s ever experienced, he leans forward and kisses Isaac Lahey, not on the cheek, not on the chin, not on the nose, but right on the goddamn mouth.

He hears and feels Isaac suck in a deep, huge breath and then Isaac’s lips are pressing against his, and yeah, okay, neither one of them know what the fuck they’re doing, but their bodies are flush and Isaac has his cast-y arm against Stiles’s back and the other one made it to his face at some point and Stiles has his hand fisted in the back of Isaac’s shirt and yes the other one is still on his neck and it’s _perfect_ even though it’s little more than prolonged mouth-on-mouth contact. It’s lip-on-lip contact, Stiles-on-Isaac contact, and it feels fucking amazing regardless. Stiles has no idea how he resisted this long, holy shit.

Stiles thinks for a brief second of trying for tongue, but they have plenty of time for that, and there’s kind of not a wall between the kitchen and the living room, so that’s something reserved for later. He just pulls back and presses a smaller kiss onto Isaac’s mouth before pulling away completely, blushing and smiling a small excited smile.

Isaac’s smile is much the same, and it looks like his eyes are glowing out of his head. Stiles has never seen them so bright before. He is absolutely entranced, and he leans forward to snag another kiss while he can, but he hears his father's voice calling to them and winds up rolling his eyes instead.

“If you boys aren’t back in here in about two minutes I’m gonna turn my head, and if I don’t see you in the kitchen I’m gonna come find you.” It's not quiet but it's not _loud_ (Stiles was grateful his dad caught on so fast about how much that freaks Isaac out, wasn't like he did it a lot anyway, but still), sounding amused but serious.

“Yeah, yeah, Dad, established,” is out of Stiles’s mouth before he can really think about it. Isaac presses his face to the curve between Stiles’s shoulder and neck and laughs, bright and unafraid, still holding onto him tightly, and yeah, you know what?

Right now Stiles _feels_ like a goddamn superhero, even if he’s not one.

Isaac's gotta be radioactive or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this 'verse, and this fluff, and this final installment as much as I did. It has been a pleasure, but holy crap am I glad it's over for now.
> 
> To everyone who has commented or Kudo'd or will comment or Kudo, you guys are spectacular. Without your support I never could've finished this thing.


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